


It's just staying

by GhostThief



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Jim Moriarty/OC - Freeform, M/M, Murder, NSFW, Please Read Trigger Warnings, Read at Your Own Risk, Suicide, Swearing, Violence, seriously these characters are criminals that should be all the warning you need: bad shit happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25028299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostThief/pseuds/GhostThief
Summary: Jim dies on the rooftop. Game over.Except it's not, because Sebastian wakes up to the exact same day.(Basically Groundhog Day but MorMor.)^^^Leaving Trigger Warnings Here Just In Case: (Blood, violence, swearing, murder, major character death, suicide.)
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. Sebastian

A single gunshot echoes in his ears. Sebastian shoots up, his back ramrod straight. His covers fly away from him. Phantom grit stings his palms from when he’d launched himself up from the opposing roof, unbelieving of the horror scene in his scope. He couldn’t trust his rifle- not that time. Sebastian had held in the shaking until he’d got up to the rooftop. Blood, so dark it was almost black, oozed from a dark head with empty eyes and a triumphant, skeletal grin. 

Jim was dead. 

Dropping his head into his hands, Sebastian lets out a low sob. He’s in their flat. In their bedroom, on their bed.

He’d followed his damn orders, like a good soldier. Look at where it’d got him. No job, no boss...no Jim. He’s alone in a flat that dwarfs him in its opulence. The oppressive emptiness stifles his voice and makes his throat go dry. 

Seb pulls himself together enough to stagger out of their....his bedroom. He rubs away the sleepiness and tears from his eyes-

He freezes. 

The kettle whistles, shrill and piercing. Or, could that be the ringing in his ears? His heart beats a mile a minute. 

“Are you going to get that, or just stand there gaping like a fish?!” Jim snaps at him, looking sleek and dark-eyed and ready to head out. Seb can’t do anything but watch the way the man's chest moves. Evidence of breathing. Jim’s alive.

A nightmare. It must have been a vivid dream. Although, lately, his terrors have been about gunfire and sand and violent heat. He hasn’t had a nightmare in Jim in about...well, in quite some time, he’s sure. 

He picks up the kettle, knowing Jim sees the way his hands are shaking out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing. Surely Jim has noticed the sweat on his skin, how pale and insubstantial Seb appears in the clear morning light. 

Time was that Jim would move to distract him from his rushing, self-flagellating thoughts, or even comfort him. Jim would wrap his small, but strong frame around his sniper’s body tuck his head under Seb’s chin and wait until his heartbeat returned to normal. 

Not now. No, not while he’s too distracted. Distant, like Jim has been ever since he heard the name Sherlock Holmes. He hasn’t paid attention to anything since, including Sebastian.   
There’s a building’s worth of space between them and Seb doesn’t know how to bridge the painful gap. He can only watch from a distance as Jim becomes a stranger to him. 

The coffee, bitter and black, is strong enough to pull him out of his trickling, morbid thoughts. The remnants of the dream are tightly shoved away in a locked safe back of his head. There they will stay, until he has time to settle himself down with his rifle to clean. Then, he can ponder the certainly fucked-up dark secrets of his subconscious in peace.   
For now, Seb puts his business face on.

It’s time to play the game. 

He doesn’t see Jim again after that stilted encounter that morning. They take separate cabs to the hospital. Sebastian spends the entire time staring blankly out the window. He drums his fingers on his leg, a forgotten marching beat. Right foot. Left foot. Keep going. 

Seb sets up on the roof opposite Saint Bart's. He aims his sights on where the good doctor is supposed to be. He has his orders....but he can’t help his scope drifting up the cold, sleek side of the hospital to settle on Jim. The consulting criminal sits on the edge -the fuckin' edge, really Jim?- of the roof. The sexy bastard cuts a neat profile in the rooftop lighting. Jim looks to attentiveness when the detective steps out onto the roof. The playacting begins. 

Seb knows that Jim won’t answer his call, even as he curses at the snarky voicemail recording in his ear. 

He knows the shot is coming before he hears it. A memory that never happened, deja vu. Even as he runs across the street and charges up the stairs, he knows what grisly scene will greet him.

He flings the door open. It bangs behind him as he runs and almost stumbles.

His legs keep him moving over to the corpse and its halo of blood. He gathers it in his arms and cradles it close to his chest. Tears leak hot and salty down his cheeks and he bears his teeth against the sobs that tear out of his throat like a wounded animal. 

He can’t bear this pain again. Again? 

But he can, because he has to. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t carry out Jim’s last orders. His last words to Sebastian. 

Seb follows his orders like a good soldier.   
^^^  
A phantom gunshot rings in his ears. Grit stings his palms. Seb shoots up. He struggles to surface in the messy ocean of his sheets. 

The kettle screams. Jim snarls at him, still too busy checking his phone. Before long, Seb’s packed into a car. Outside, the passing traffic is muted. His head still echoes with the shot. Jim, swanning about. Jim, dead. 

Twice is too much to ignore. His dreams will repeat, sure, but never like this. They’ve never been as real as this. 

He’s got a second chance.

Sebastian won’t lose Jim again. 

On the roof, he calms his breathing and adjusts his scope. As soon as Sherlock Holmes steps into Seb’s crosshairs, the man drops dead. 

Jim, of course, is furious. But! He is alive. Sebastian almost laughs in relief. 

Movement catches his attention. Across the street might as well be a whole ocean for how little he is able to do as he watches Jim. The criminal studies the body and almost- Seb squints- was that a shrug? Jim reaches into his coat and raises a familiar shape to his mouth-

Seb wakes up to a gunshot and stinging palms. He takes a moment to breathe and feel the softness of the sheets against his skin with each shuddering inhale.

The kettle sings in the kitchen. 

You failed! You failed! You failed!   
^^^  
This time he doesn’t wait for the rooftop. He dashes into the hospital, making sure to avoid Jim. He crashes into the lab where the detective is working, murder burning in his blood. 

John stands in his way. Of course he does. John’s the soldier to his own crazy genius and just as desperate as Sebastian is to protect. It’s a brutal fight. 

In the end, it’s Sebastian laid out on the floor, losing blood from a small hole in his side. Lucky shot. John’s not that good of a gunman. Seb’s last thought, as the world flares red with pain,and then nothing, is that at least it’s not Jim. He doesn’t have to watch Jim die again.   
^^^  
A gunshot echoes. The kettle screams at him. 

Sebastian ignores Jim, swiping his gear as he stalks to a car. 

“Baker Street,” He snaps to the cabbie.

He steals inside the flat, avoiding the old woman’s door. Seb stalks up the stairs with graceful silent steps. The look of utter shock on Sherlock Holmes' face will be held dearly in Sebastan’s memory for a long time. He can see it in the mirror, as well as his own face pulled up in a snarl while he holds Holmes from behind in a choke hold. He pulls out his knife and swipes it across Sherlock’s skin. A red smile blooms on the detective’s neck. 

“This is for Jim,” Seb snarls over the raggedy sound of air being pushed out from a hole in the detective’s throat. John, Sebastian catches in the man’s bedroom and takes him down with ease. 

He’s gotten lucky with his foreknowledge and one other thing- both the detective and his blogger are expecting the next stage of the game. The detective, especially, wouldn’t even consider in his big, posh brain that Jim Moriarty would stoop to simple assassination. It’s too easy for the consulting criminal. Such an inelegant solution would be beneath Jim.

It’s not too low for Sebastian. 

Jim’s fucking furious. He makes sure Sebastian knows it, leveling a stinging blow on the sniper’s cheek. Seb takes it, because it could be so much worse. He’d rather be facing down Jim’s eyes that are black and blazing with fury, than Jim’s cold unblinking, unseeing gaze. 

It could be worse, Seb thinks-- even as Jim works himself into an epic rage.

It could be worse, he wants to say to Jim. The shorter man reaches into his coat.

Even as Sebastian leaps for the gun. Even as the shot rings out.

It could be worse.  
^^^  
An echoing gunshot and ringing in his ears. That FUCKING kettle. 

Sebastian rolls over and shoves his pillow over his ears. Fuck this. He’s so tired of trying. Everything he does fails. Jim doesn’t appreciate his efforts to keep him alive. When has he ever? Seb huffs bitterly.

If Jim is so dead set upon destroying himself, then why not let him? It’s not as if Seb could stop him, stuck on earth while Jim collapses on himself like a black hole. 

Seb’s sick of his efforts being spurned and thrown back in his face, time and time again. He’s sick of getting up, looking in the mirror, and telling himself the same lie he’d told his men. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be fine. 

But it won’t be fine. He’ll never wake up tomorrow.

He doesn’t bother getting out of bed. The kettle stops. Sebastian listens to the muffled sounds of Jim getting ready to leave. His heart thumps painfully. Once he hears the front door slam, he rolls out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and nothing else.

He digs out Jim’s most expensive brands from the liquor cabinet and drinks straight from the bottle. Fuck Jim AND his stupid expensive brandy. It doesn’t even taste good. Seb downs it anyway. It’s not like he's ever cared about taste before. Been a while since he’s drunk like this, but he finds his body still remembers how to handle the alcohol easily. 

He switches on the telly and drinks until the coffee table is littered with bottles of varying sizes and color.

The alcohol brings warmth with it. Unconsciousness sweeps over him like a cool blanket. 

When he wakes up, his mouth tastes like something died in it. The evening news is on, reporting the latest story. Suicide! The great Sherlock Holmes goes down! 

Sebastian toasts the screen.   
^^^  
The gunshot. 

He used to like the sound a bullet made when it left the barrel of his gun. He hates it now. Can’t help the gut reflex to throw everything aside and make sure that Jim is alive. Which he is, for now anyway. 

If he ever gets out of this horrible day, Sebastian is throwing that kettle in the bin. An electric one should replace it. Maybe one of those fancy ones that lights up when it’s done. He can convince Jim to pay for it. 

Sebastian rolls over, cursing when he pulls the nightstand drawer open with so much force that he sends the lamp tumbling to the floor. He ignores it, too busy searching through the contents to find one of his handguns. and pull it out. 

Footsteps approach the bedroom as he takes the safety off. Cock the hammer. Find the target. He fits the barrel of the gun into his mouth.

He’s partly bored and wants to see what will happen. If the loop will reset or not. If it does, at least he has an easy reset button. If it doesn’t….well. He knows what happens to Jim. He doesn’t want to live in a world without Jim in it anyway. 

The other part of him is just ticked off. He won’t let Jim fuck him up this go around. It’s an epic fuck you to him, and maybe Seb wants to make Jim hurt as much as he’s been hurting. Give Jim a taste of his own medicine.

So Seb waits until Jim’s footsteps enter the room. Waits until he sees Jim’s eyes widen and hears: 

“Sebastian, what the-”

He pulls the trigger.


	2. Jim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim wakes up to a day he's already lived. This isn't right. Didn't he die?
> 
> Leaving Trigger Warnings Here Just In Case: (Blood, violence, swearing, murder, major character death, suicide.)

Jim wakes up and fights the urge to scream because he doesn’t want to wake the man sleeping next to him. Not out of any consideration, but because Jim doesn’t feel like explaining that the last place he’d expected to wake up was here! When the last thing he remembers is laughing at the shock on Holmes’ face as he shoved a gun into his own mouth and pulled the trigger. 

He had it all planned out perfectly. The final problem! Him and Sherlock facing off one last time before it all ended. No more just staying. It’s elegant. It’s perfect. It's Jim Moriarty’s ninth symphony. 

So why is he here-- back in bed with Sebastian the morning of the final day?

Jim leaves their bed carefully, sliding off so as not to wake the sniper. Sebby needs his sleep. After all, today's going to be a big day for him. 

Jim is still puzzling over the question as he absentmindedly puts the kettle on. When its whistle breaks his concentration, he snaps at Sebastian, not paying attention to the man’s annoyed look. He’s more interested in his phone, where Jim is looking up every news article to confirm. It really is the same day. 

Was it a bad dream? A premonition? Time travel? Fuck if Jim knows, and fuck if he’s going to let this get in the way of his grand plan. 

He stalks out the door, texting his instructions to Sebastian. Time to get down to business. 

He laughs as he swings the gun up because he’s won. He’s played against Sherlock Holmes and WON.   
^^^  
Jim wakes up next to Sebastian and really does scream. A little squeak of pure rage which unfortunately doesn’t wake up Seb-- because Jim really wants to hit someone. Or stab them. Or both. Yes, both. What the FUCK. 

The day proceeds. He snarls at Sebastian with more vitriol than usual, because it’s either that or back to the stabbing idea. He simmers in a black mood all the way to the hospital, as he stomps up the stairs and gets into position on the roof and scowls.

This...this is his master plan! His grand exit! Jim wants to scream because this is supposed to be his crowning moment of glory and -he’s BORED. BORED! He’s been through this rigmarole twice already. Jim Moriarty may be a great actor, but he’s never needed to practice his lines. He’s not looking forward to duping Sherlock anymore. The game has lost its appeal. 

He reluctantly gears himself up to go through this for the third time as Sherlock makes his entrance. Something carves through the air on Jim’s right and a red hole blossoms on the detective’s face as he drops. Sebastian. 

Jim can’t help another little scream that promises pain and torture and agonizing death for his sniper because this wasn’t in the plan. He hadn’t given Sebastian any sort of orders in regards to shooting Holmes, because Sherlock was Jim’s to play with. 

Fuck it. Jim reaches into his coat. 

Might as well finish what he started.  
^^^  
Sebastian charges into the hospital and kills Sherlock before Jim can even touch him. 

Goddammit. Does the man ever think? No, that’s Jim’s job. Seb’s job is to follow orders. Which he’s apparently become terrible at. Jim is going to fucking kill him. Slowly. 

Then John puts a bullet in Sebastian and oh, no, that won’t do at all. Only Jim gets to kill Sebby. He says so to John as he aims and fires. Jim hits his mark. 

Then he turns the gun on himself because this got boring five minutes ago, and he has a grand plan to finish, if the universe would just let him GET ON WITH IT.   
^^^  
Sebastian rushes past him on his way to the door, not even offering a ‘hello’ or a ‘good morning’or a ‘what the fuck is going on, Jim?’ Which is just rude. 

Sebastian isn’t ruining this for him again. Jim will make sure of that this time. 

He’s too slow to catch the sniper before he speeds off, so Jim calls a cab instead, and generously offers the cabbie his life if the man can get him to Baker Street, like, NOW. 

Sebastian doesn’t even look sorry as he stands in the carnage of Baker Street, as Jim slaps him with enough force to make his hand ache. Jim howls at him and the man doesn’t even blink. He has the gall to SMILE. That’s when Jim loses himself to the tidal wave of rage roaring inside him and shoves the gun in Sebastian's face. Seb has the nerve to try and stop him, to wrap his hand around Jim’s own and squeeze. 

There’s a bang, amplified unbearably loud by the confines of the flat, and a silence as Sebastian sinks to the floor. Blood squirts from a hole in his chest. He’s gone in seconds, too fast for Jim to do anything but stare, trembling. He didn’t mean to do that. He...he didn’t mean it, he was just so angry. Damn Sebastian for trying to fight him. 

Sebastian’s blood is staining the carpet. He doesn’t belong here. He should have been safe in his position on the roof. He shouldn’t have been here. 

Jim doesn’t want to be here, and thankfully he has an easy reset button.   
^^^  
Sebastian never comes out that morning, this morning, the same morning because it’s always the same day. Jim knows he’s in the bedroom, heard the bed creak when the sniper wakes. 

Jim gets ready to confront him, to stop him if necessary. But Sebastian never emerges, and Jim can finally, finally get this fucking day over with. 

Everything goes according to plan. 

He never gets that phone call though. 

Everything goes almost according to plan.

It’s fine. He could play ‘Staying Alive’ himself, though it’s not as dramatic. He doesn’t really need Sebastian for this anyway. 

Jim’s laughing as he pulls the trigger.  
^^^  
He’s not laughing as he wakes up AGAIN. What does he have to DO!? What the fuck is the universe’s problem? All he wants to do is murder Sherlock Holmes and then himself in a glorious showdown! Is that too much to ask? 

He’s sulking in the kitchen. Jim throws the kettle straight into the bin, hot water and all because there’s only so many times a man can listen to that screeching and not go mental.

There’s a crash in the bedroom and Jim frowns. That sounded a lot like his favorite lamp breaking. What the fuck is Sebastian doing in there? 

In the split seconds he gets as he opens the door, Jim’s mind races, putting together all the data that shocks (scares) him. The porcelain shards on the floor, the open drawer, the gun in Sebastian's mouth, cocked and loaded, always loaded. A pause, and Sebastian’s piercing blue eyes demanding Jim’s attention as his teeth clench the barrel in a feral grimace as-

“Sebastian, what the-”

He pulls the trigger.

“Fuck.” 

There’s -there is...pink stuff on the pillow. (Brain matter, Jim’s stupid, clever brain supplies helpfully). The sheets are soaked in blood. That’s never going to come out of the expensive Egyptian cotton. It’s fine. He'll just take it out of Sebastian's paycheck. He won’t need it. Sebastian's eyes are fixed on the ceiling. Before that they had been fixed on Jim with blazing intensity and...and...and…

His face is wet. Jim reaches up and touches with his fingertips. They come back wet. He’s crying. His hand is shaking. This wasn’t supposed to HAPPEN. Seb was supposed to stay safe, stay alive. He wasn’t supposed to look Jim in the eye and do..that. 

Jim pulls out his own gun, but he can’t bring himself to cock it. He can’t take his eyes off Sebastian’s cooling face. Jim could reset this. He has an easy fix right now. But he can’t. He’s struck by the irrational fear that this is the last one. This is the last time he’ll ever see his Sebby again and it was with the cold metal of a gun barrel between them. He’ll never get to yell at him, or fight with him, or on good days kiss him and-- what if he doesn’t come back? Jim can’t do this alone. He can’t. He needs Sebastian. 

“I need you.” He gasps out, crawling to the bed, heedless of the blood starting to drip to the carpet. He brings Seb’s rough calloused hand to his own forehead, seeking forgiveness and only feeling Seb’s flesh chill as the blood that warms it recedes. 

Jim feels something inside him tear and he’s wailing like a child. He clutches onto the hand for dear life, body wracked as he struggles to breath through his pain. 

“Come back.”

Sebastian had WAITED for him to see. Had wanted Jim to watch. God, is this what it had felt like on Sebastian’s end? As he watched through the scope of his rifle, did Seb feel the same fear that Jim had felt? The same dread of the gunshot, as loud as a bell’s toll, reverberating throughout his whole body?

“I’ll fix this. I’ll fix this, I promise. I’m so sorry, Sebastian.”

Jim hits the reset button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, Comment, Review! I have the next chapter written.


	3. Jim, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Fresh Start? 
> 
> TW: swearing, blood, violence, death, murder, suicide, murder husbands

Jim wakes up slowly, coming to awareness once, twice, three times before the fog of sleepiness in his mind clears. He rises up slowly, sure that he can feel blood draining from his head. Drip. Drip. Drip. He reaches up a hand to touch his hair, and it’s not sticky like he expects. Just bed-tousled. 

He doesn’t normally sleep this late. Jim hadn’t slept in the day before, or the day before that, or the day before THAT...and so on. You can't really blame him. After re-living the same day over, it's hard not to sleep in. 

Something’s changed. Jim hopes it’s a good change. 

He turns to the side of the bed reserved for his sniper, expecting to see Sebastian’s blond hair peeking out from under the plush comforter and feather pillows. The lump of comforters will reveal the shape of Sebastian, tanned, scarred, and grumpy with sleep. Maybe Sebastian would roll over and fling an arm across Jim. Not trapping him, just providing enough pressure to keep him secure and pressed down into the bed. 

But there’s only the indent of Seb's large body left. The sheets are cold under Jim’s fingertips, and he wastes a few minutes trailing his fingers along the grain of the silky threads. He’s thinking of all the nights spent here, and wishing that he could feel the residual heat from Sebastian’s body. Sebby always runs hot, so burning hot. He warms up the bed at night and Jim always has to fight with himself to keep from rolling over and stealing all of Sebastian's warmth. To let himself feel secure. Now, Jim shivers. There’s no warmth in the bed, or anywhere in the flat, for that matter. 

Sebastian is gone. 

That’s fine, Jim can track the sniper easily. Only-- there’s no trace of anything out of place in the flat, save for the non-descript, expensive phone left on the table. Sebastian’s phone. That’s one way down, but Jim has other options. 

As Jim searches the flat, he finds all the little pieces of Sebastian gone. His leather jacket, still hanging in the closet. The tracker Jim knows is sewn into the worn brown fabric is still active, but useless left here. Same for the one he’d snuck in the sole of Sebastian’s nice leather shoes; the same ones he’d bought for the man. All the guns left in their racks. Sebastian loves his guns. He cleans them obsessively. But there’s not one missing. 

Take-out sitting uneaten in the fridge. A glass with a drop of amber liquid still rests by the sink and for some reason the sight of it makes Jim swallow. Crystal shatters against the wall in a shower of sharp glass as he hurls it, teeth bared in a snarl. 

Sebastian is HIS. He can’t just leave! Jim won’t allow it.

(He has to fix his mistakes.)  
^^^  
Jim sends out texts to his network. No one’s seen Sebastian. He threatens, cajoles, bribes, all for naught. Sebastian’s too good at his job. He’s learned well. Gleaned too many of Jim’s secrets from him in small, quiet moments that Jim regrets now. God knows what Sebastian could do to him. With everything he knows ...Sebastian could ruin him. Jim might as well have signed his own death warrant. 

Jim takes to the streets himself, as the city slides into shadows, and street lights illuminate sharp building edges. Gleaming cars shimmer in dim orange streaks, reflected up from wet tarmac. He walks and broods. 

His mind runs in circles, torturing him with what-ifs. What if he hadn’t brought the gun to the rooftop. Never loaded the bullet in the chamber. Hell, never showed up at all! What-if he’d ignored Sherlock from the beginning? Who would he have played with then? He thinks of the years when Sebastian was just his bodyguard, always a few steps behind him. But still always there. 

Jim wraps his arms around himself, trying to keep in his body heat. After hours of walking, the cold is finally hitting him. It sneaks up on him, creeping into his bones. Jim shivers, but can't shake out the chill. Soft rain soaks his fine garments. Of course, he’s in his favorite suit. It’s getting ruined by the puddles he splashes through relentlessly. 

The sun sets and Jim runs out of time. 

He walks for hours, until his feet are on fire and his legs are trembling and even he doesn’t know where he is. 

He’s gotten himself lost. 

Jim feels a pain in his chest, sharp and hot. Against the freezing chill in the air, his cheeks flush red. His hair sops with water and clings to his forehead. He gasps. Steadies himself against the nearest building, brick scraping against his palm. He shouldn’t be out here, on the street like some vagrant. He has a home. He should just go home. 

this it then? Is he going to give up? 

Never! Some part of him snarls. Sebastian belongs to him. He’s Jim-FUCKING-Moriarty, and no one can run from him. 

But he’s still lost. He still hasn’t found Sebastian. If Jim couldn’t catch him by now...he could be anywhere. Jim might have to come to terms. Sebastian has left him. And he won’t be coming back.

Loss is a bitter taste in his mouth, smacking of failure. And something else that hurts, that tugs at him. A dark feeling that makes his face flame, and his shoulders hunch in. He doesn’t like how it makes him wish to see Sebastian one more time, to explain to him in person. To try and win his loyalty back. As if Jim doesn’t automatically deserve it, and everything else Sebastian Moran has to offer. 

No.

Jim doesn’t have to put up with this. He doesn’t need anyone. He doesn’t need Sebastian. 

Jim goes home, and if he doesn’t manage to sleep, it’s certainly not because he’s missing a familiar warmth next to him.   
^^^  
Morning rises with a sickly pink dawn. Jim blinks blearily at his phone. Then he leaps straight up, adrenaline coursing through his veins, all his attention focused on his screen. Because it’s the next day. 

Sebastian is still gone. Jim doesn’t know what this means. 

It’s the next day, and everything is the same and nothing is the same. But it is finally TOMORROW. Something has gone right. Jim’s gotten the universe’s memo. He stays at home. Puts Sebastian's gun back on the rack. No one dies today. 

He stays away from Sherlock, save for a few texts he sends just to fuck with the man. It’s almost funny. This is still the first time for dear little Sherlock. The poor virgin must be so excited for the culmination of their game. 

Jim doesn’t make a move. His heart isn’t in it. He’s already played out that day more times than he ever wanted to. All the outcomes are...unsatisfactory. As he sits in his flat, in Richard Brook's baggy white t-shirt and comfy sweatpants, feet propped up on the coffee table, Jim wonders why he ever found the game interesting. Sherlock Holmes could never match up to Jim. He sees it now. Too cowardly, too sentimental. Sherlock would have jumped, Jim knows it. Sherlock would have jumped, and for some reason, that leaves Jim feeling unsatisfied. Sherlock Holmes is predictable. And that’s just boring. 

Jim calls off his men, the snipers he had on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Watson. He spends the day searching for every mention of Richard Brook or Jim Moriarty on the internet, and methodically destroys each one. He wipes himself from memory. He forfeits the game. 

Jim spends his next waking hours networking from his laptop. Rebuilding won't be easy. He’ll have to recover all the ground he’s lost from his exposure to the media. Jim’s game was supposed to end with him dying, but now that he’s alive, Jim has to save his reputation. He orders a few hits, to put his more uppity clients in their place. It’s more work than he expects, managing everything from home. He really built himself into a corner with this latest scheme, and now he’s paying the price for it. 

He does the work. Jim does not think about Sebastian. He does not think about how he’s going to have to show his face soon. He told the world that he was dead. Now he has to reverse it. Come back to life. More importantly, he has to convince his whole network that he's alive and still (mostly) sane. He'll have to get himself some new muscle before then. He does not think about the fact that he hasn’t had to get a new bodyguard in…six years at least. 

Jim has practice with being alone. He built his empire from the ground up and he did it by himself. He can do it again. 

No Sherlock. No game. No Sebastian. 

Just Jim, and the work.   
^^^  
His laptop is on 24/7. It is the only light that illuminates his flat. Jim travels between it and his bed. Against his will, he drifts off and bolts upright thirty minutes later, heart pounding, a scream lodged in his throat. The dirty tatters of a nightmare slip from his mind, leaving stains that he can’t remember. Jim only knows the dread he felt.

He doesn’t let himself sleep for longer than a few minutes at a time after that. The purple bruises under his eyes grow bigger and deeper. All work and no play makes Jim… a very busy man. He types, and ignores his hands shaking. He’s done this before. He can do it again. 

Even if Jim doesn’t really want to. 

Another day passes. Then a week. Two. Three weeks, after his failed death, and Jim finally feels like he’s gotten things under control. Better than that, actually. 

He’s thriving underneath the city. The Holmes are driving themselves in circles trying to find any trace of him. His abrupt disappearance was so unsettling after his flashy public entrance. Jim would have found it funny before, watching them run around like blind mice. Sebastian would have laughed with him. 

He always liked Sebastian’s laugh, the way he smiled just a bit too largely, with too many teeth. Jim would admire them, and then try to bite the laughter off Sebastian’s lips. Sebastian wouldn’t dare bite back, but he’d open his mouth willingly, let Jim in and tug him closer. 

The flat is silent. It is cold, and empty. Jim shuts his laptop. The soft click is louder in the vacant space. He never really noticed it before. He knows this must have been his normal, once upon a time. It doesn’t feel as comfortable as it once was. Maybe it never was. Maybe he just convinced himself it was good enough. 

Good enough, what could possibly be good enough? Jim doesn’t want good enough. He wants better. He wants the best. He fucking deserves the best. 

Except that he doesn’t. He drove it away. 

Jim gets himself a drink. He downs it, pours himself another, and another and another, until he blacks out and stops wondering when he started thinking in terms of before and after Sebastian Moran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Written Chapter! Work has begun on the next one :)


	4. Jim, Once More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim handles being dumped with absolutely no grace. Funny, he didn't feel so torn up about Molly Hooper as he does about Sebastian Moran. 
> 
> Leaving you with trigger warnings again: (Blood, violence, swearing, murder, major character death, suicide, NSFW)
> 
> There is an NSFW scene at the end of the chapter, so if you want to avoid it, I'll summarize what happens in the chapter notes. 
> 
> (Also, this is taking darker turns than I expected, and I'm unsure if that's a good thing. Feedback is always appreciated.)

Sebastian might as well be a ghost, for all that Jim can find on the man. All the eyes in his criminal network do him no good. No one knows where Sebastian is. Jim knows his people aren’t lying. No one would dare lie to Moriarty.

It’s like Seb came back just to taunt Jim, and then vanished into thin air. Fuck, that’s exactly what he’d do. Spiting Jim always was a favorite pastime of his. 

Jim doesn’t like the sensation of weight sliding on a scale. He doesn’t lose. He won’t lose. He keeps looking. Sebastian can’t hide from him forever. He’s not the sort of man who can stand sitting around and waiting for long. He’ll keep moving. And as long as he keeps running, Jim will keep tracking him. 

Jim doesn’t have to do this with Sebastian. These last few weeks have proved that. Jim’s capable of functioning on his own. He survived before he knew Sebastian. He’s learned to do it again. The difference is, he WANTS Sebastian by his side. 

Jim doesn’t know how to say it out loud. He thought it was implied. Something the two of them never spoke about. Until that fateful day when he died. And now he's alive again, and he still hasn't said it. Will never have the chance to. 

Jim knows how to push and twist and bend and break and Sebastian knows how to fight back and when to bend to Jim’s whims. They made a perfect pair. Jim can look back at the past six years and see that now. 

He shouldn’t be here. The thought pulses in time with the deafening music. The bass thrums deep in his chest, droning from gigantic speakers, and Jim feels thrown back to longer than he wants to admit. At least 10 years ago, when this was the kind of venue he really would solicit, and not just another slum where another job is happening. He feels more out of place in his bespoke black and white suit, than when he snuck into the neon-lit exclusive club for the first time in tight skinny jeans and a leather jacket. He was so inexperienced then.

Now, the bouncer won’t even look him in the eye. Now, the bartender drops their towel nervously and hurries to the back. Couples stop dancing. The crowd parts around him like a personal red sea. They don’t know him, or who he is, but they can read his face and his intentions well enough for their tiny brains to warn them that interfering with his business is a bad idea. 

Jim hardly recognizes the scared looks as he stalks through the crowd, head oscillating, scanning. Glinting hollowed eyes hunting for his familiar prey. Alone, in a crowd, as only a hunter can be. 

Jim sees him. It’s only movement in his peripheral vision, but Jim catches it all the same. He knows that body, even though it was a moving silhouette in the club lights. Blonde hair highlighted in flashing neon green and pink. A solid mass of broad shoulders prowling through the crowd. 

He would recognize the lethal intent of Sebastian Moran anywhere. 

Jim reaches the back of the club, where the private rooms are. Abandoning dignity, he runs through red and black wall-papered hallways with his jacket flying behind him. He pushes people aside, inciting shocked gasps from scantily clad women and angry shouts that he ignores. He shoves open the exit door. It crashes against the wall with a BANG! Jim curses and swallows down a scream. He pants, glaring at the stray dangling strands of hair falling in his eyes. Fucks sake, he's sweating. Jim closes his eyes in exasperation. That's another suit ruined. 

He was so close. Always so close. Jim almost touched Sebastian, brushed his fingers against what looked like a new leather coat. One that Jim hadn’t bought for him, or even seen before.   
He looked healthy, Jim thinks. Then he curses himself for being a weak idiot. 

He’s going soft. He’s going mad. Sebastian Moran is driving him insane, popping up in the most unthinkable places, always moving, just out of reach of Jim’s tangled web. Now all of a sudden he’s here. In a local London nightclub that Jim’s supposed to be knocking into shape. It’s the kind of place Seb would have frequented earlier in life. Around the time he met Jim Moriarty, for that matter, newly disgraced and jobless in London. 

Jim would almost think that Sebastian wanted him to find him. Why else would he come back? Maybe it’s a hint, Sebastian appearing in Jim’s old hunting grounds. Maybe he wants Jim to chase him.

This could actually be fun, Jim thinks. He’ll play Sebastian’s game, and at the end of it, Sebastian will break down and tell him the truth. He’ll come back. Things can finally go back to normal. 

Jim smiles, excitement coursing through his veins and lighting him up like a Christmas tree. This COULD actually be fun.   
^^^  
The bar is slumped, like it’s rotting from the inside out. It doesn’t deter Jim from entering, but he can’t shake his desire for hand sanitizer. The place is filthy. Trust Sebastian to pick places like this to frequent. Typical. Give the man nice things, but he always goes back to the same old filth give the choice. Jim sneers. He can see the scum stains on the glasses. A fine layer of dirt driven into the floorboards, and men with slumped shoulders like gravity is crushing them to the earth. A layer of blue smoke hangs just under the low ceiling. Jim sticks his hands in his pockets, and breathes shallowly. 

A child in a red jacket had directed him here, saying that the tall, scared man had stumbled in about ten minutes ago. Jim smirks, knowing Sebastian will have already been booted out of several dens before visiting this one, already tipsy. Time to hunt a drunk tiger.

But there’s no familiar head of blonde hair. As he gazes at the bar patrons, it's obvious to see that no one new has come in for a long time. Even the bartender looks surprised to have a new customer. 

Jim scowls. The child in the red coat. Lying little shit! He stalks out of the bar, and looks around. Nothing. A newspaper flutters by. 

Jim tilts his head towards the sky. The view would be rather pretty, if it wasn’t spoiled by the power lines and smoke stacks. The sun is curtained by hazy grey clouds that sometimes allow glowing bars of sunshine through. 

Red flashes on the bar roof. Jim turns, to see the lying little street kid climbing up the fire escape to another, taller building behind it. He’s already a good distance away. Jim could probably hit him if he bothered to take his gun out, but he leaves it. 

“How much did he pay you?” Jim calls. The kid pauses. 

“100 quid!” 

Jim has to laugh. 

He doesn’t know why he watches the kid climb up the roof of the taller building and vanish. Why he just lets the vagrant scamper away unharmed. Maybe he’s going soft. Jim makes a face, wrinkling his nose. He’ll kill someone else. 

Jim loiters on the street, leaning against a light pole. His face is briefly lit from underneath as he lights a cigarette and inhales. The smoke bites his throat, and he wrinkles his nose. This isn’t his preferred brand. He knows, without checking the box, that these are Sebastian’s. Jim takes a long drag, burning half the cig to ash in one go. Disgusting. He blows out a cloud of blue smoke. His suit will be smelling of tobacco now. 

Fuck it. Jim smokes two more, watching patrons enter the bar. One man watches him blow out another cloud. Jim catches his eye, and slowly, raises his hand to his mouth and sucks in his cheeks as he inhales. 

The man, dish-water blonde, with a soft chin, vanishes inside the bar. Jim throws down the smoking butt, grinding it out under his shoe. He follows the man inside, and buys him a drink. Then he shares Sebastian's cigarettes with him, once again outside the bar. They head inside for more drinks, with chasers. Soon they’re leaving together, the man’s arm tossed around Jim’s shoulders.   
^^^

They get into an uber. The man keeps his arm wrapped possessively around Jim’s shoulder. Jim allows it, forcing himself to relax. The man directs them to a hotel, where they get a room for the night under the hotel clerk's bored eye. 

Jim slams the door behind him, uncaring if it wakes up any of the shady hotel’s patrons. He’s only here for one thing. A big hand, roughed with callouses, pulls him into a heated kiss. It’s decent, but unfamiliar, and that makes Jim angry. Jim breaks it off, managing not to sink his teeth into the man’s tongue at the last second. 

His ankle wraps around the taller man’s knee and trips him backwards. Flat on his back, Jim’s partner begins to unbutton his shirt with shaky, excited hands while Jim climbs up his legs and straddles his hips. He’s not fast enough for Jim, who leans down in a predatory crouch to flash teeth at his neck, sucking and biting. 

“Watch it!” The man breaths out, not acting too upset. Jim can feel his skin heating up, his pulse racing, his pupils are vast and black. 

Jim ignores him, sucking harder, leaving bruises on tanned skin. He rocks his hips forward. Catching the man’s sharp inhale, Jim does it again, and again, until they’ve built up a rhythm. 

Jim’s fingers dig into the man’s shoulders. The man’s own grip on Jim is bruising, but Jim can barely feel it over the heat pulsing and rising inside his gut. 

“Sebastian.” He whispers. 

Just like that, it’s over. Jim collapses onto his partner's chest, breathing heavily. Head turned, he opens his eyes, feeling light and fuzzy. Almost like he isn’t here at all, but watching himself and the man on the bed. 

“My name’s Stephen.” The man under him sits up. Jim squeezes his eyes shut again and takes a deep breath. 

“Shut up.” Jim growls, and pushes him back into the bed frame with a thump. The man is too stunned to react, even laughing nervously a little, which makes Jim’s skin prickle. He crawls up to the man and snarls in his face. “Stop talking!” 

“What the hell is your problem! You can fuck right off!” The man shoves Jim off him, face twisting in disbelief. He searches for his strewn wallet and tie while Jim tumbles off to the floor. 

Jerking his shirt closed, the man turns, ready to storm out. 

Jim’s fist cracks against his jaw, rattling his skull. The man stumbles, black spots fading in and out of his vision. Jim steps into him, driving an elbow into his gut. He doubles over, and Jim flips him over his hip. The floor meets the man’s back and all the air flies out of his lungs. 

“I told you not to speak!” Jim rages. “Why can’t you just follow orders for once!” His face twists in anger, growing more contorted as his voice rises. He looms over the man, crumpled on the ground, and no longer looks as small as he had in the dim bar light.

For the first time, fear hit the man like an electric shock. Finally, he seems to realize the situation he’s stumbled into. He is rooted to the spot, forced to watch as this dark, ordinary looking man grows more monstrous and erratic. 

Jim’s eyes are hooded. He bared his teeth in a painful smile. “You aren't allowed to leave, Sebastian.” He takes a step forward. The man gets to his knees. 

“Wait.”

Another step. Jim flexes his fingers. 

“I’m not whoever you think I am.” The man raises an arm. “I’m going to leave. You’re fucking mental. I’m going to call the fucking cops.”

Jim stares at him. Faintly, his jaw clicks. 

“Did you hear me! I’m going to call the police! You better move, you fucking-”. 

Jim leaps on top of him, fingers curled into claws that wrap around the man’s throat. He’s stronger than he looks, slowly crushing the man’s windpipe with his thumbs. Spittle dots the man’s lips as he wheezes and fails to take air in. Jim’s arms shake. He digs his fingernails deeper into the man’s skin. 

Up close, Jim’s face contorts into something ugly. His eyes are fever bright. 

“You shouldn’t have tried to leave.” Jim rasps softy. 

The man’s eyes glaze over as he slumps lifelessly to the floor. He hears Jim whisper, though he doesn’t understand the words. 

“You can’t leave. I’m going to bring you back, Sebastian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim has sex with a random man and then murders random man, then vows to get Sebastian back. You know, the usual.


	5. Finally, a Seb Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where IS Sebastian anyway? 
> 
> (TW for death, blood, murder, guns, swearing. )

You might be wondering where Sebastian is. 

Currently, he’s sprawled on the ice cold floor of a sparkling kitchen, drinking hundreds-of-years-old wine directly from the bottle. The home owner doesn’t need it anymore. 

“And it’s still shit!” He gestures to the figure slumped against the wall opposite him, legs splayed, a red hole in its forehead. 

The gun is still warm in Seb’s left hand. Being ambidextrous is wonderful, he thinks, as he takes another swig. After a full night of drinking at the card tables, he’s already thoroughly pissed. 

“Figures you’d be the type to spend loads of money on shit w-wine.” 

The leaking corpse of Ronald Adair doesn’t talk back. 

“Death got your tongue?” Seb laughs at his own joke. “Serves you right.” Fucker couldn’t handle the pressure of winning. Claimed he had a guilty conscience or something. 

“Like fuck I was going to let you turn me in,” Seb monologues to the body. “My life is already shit without you going and tattling about cheating -fucking cheating!-of all things.” That’s the problem with people like Adair. All talk, no follow through. No guts. Sebastian hates people like the rich young man, shallow and greedy. Useless. 

“Now, my Boss, he knew how to follow through. Followed his own game into the fucking grave.”

Thinking about Jim makes Seb angry. He throws the bottle at Ronald’s head. It explodes just above the red splash of brains on the wall—evidence that Seb is drunker than he thought. He never misses. 

He should go home. Seb, with some effort, stands, swaying uncertainly. Where will he sleep tonight? Another bare mattress, in a bare room? In a flat he hasn’t stepped foot in since moving in with Jim-

Fuck Jim. Sebastian scowls, pouting. He’s the reason Seb is out here in the first place, squandering away his days playing cards (cheating at cards, really) and drinking himself to death. How long’s it been anyway, three...four weeks? 

Seb still feels the burning heat of anger in his chest, banked by betrayal simmering deep below. Jim left him. Jim did this to him. Jim doesn’t care about him, clearly he never did because then he wouldn’t have done That. 

“I’m not done yet.” He mutters, revenge pushing him out into the foggy London night. It drives him up to the residential side of London, to a familiar flat. He stands across the street and looks up at the window, a black silhouette profiled in a yellow square of warm light. 

Seb’s life is already ruined. 

He might as well ruin it a little more. One last hunt. 

A rifle, not his own, is still hidden under drywall and canvas in the empty flat opposite Baker street, a remnant of Jim’s master plan. It’s covered in dust, and still locked away in its case. Never used. 

“I’ll finish what you started, Jim.” Seb mutters, “Since you’ve lost the nerve to do it yourself.” 

Sirens wail in the backdrop of London street traffic. Seb tunes it out, already falling into the trance that he revels in, letting the calm sink over him as he puts the rifle together. Each piece slots cleanly together, making a satisfying click. This is what he lives for. The calm before the storm. Where nothing else matters except his breathing and the scene through the scope.

The crosshairs float until they settle right on the head of the silhouette, still framed beautifully by the window. Seb smirks. “Thank you.”

The shot is perfect, the alcohol in his blood no match for his finely tuned skills with a rifle. 

Seb has a moment to revel in the adrenaline rush before the door slams behind him. He doesn’t even get a chance to turn around before a boot is kicking him down to the floor, hands pulling his arms behind his back.

“Sebastian Moran, you are under arrest for the murder of Ronald Adair. You have the right-“

A maniac grin stretches across Seb’s face as he is read his rights and is dragged none-too-gently into a squad car. 

He’s done. 

He finally got Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today! Like, comment, review!


	6. Seb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I'd ever write some sort of breakup/reconciliation fic, but here we are. 
> 
> TW for death, suicide, swearing, blood, captivity

You might be wondering where Sebastian is. 

Currently, he’s sprawled on the ice-cold floor of a sparkling kitchen. It’s one of those kitchens that belongs in a cleaning product commercial, full of big shiny appliances and modern white and (insert dull desaturated color here) color schemes. It doesn’t look like a kitchen any real chef would step foot in. Seb’s sure the floor is squeaky clean. Or, it was after he plopped his dirty arse on it. Ha. And started drinking hundreds-of-years-old wine directly from the bottle. The homeowner doesn’t need it anymore. 

“And it’s still shit!” He gestures to the figure slumped against the wall opposite him, legs splayed, a red hole in his forehead. “I could fake this! S’not hard.” 

The gun is still warm in Seb’s left hand. Being ambidextrous is wonderful, he thinks, as he takes another swig. After a full night of drinking at the card tables, he’s already thoroughly drunk. 

“Figures you’d be the type to spend loads of money on shit...shit w-wine.” 

The leaking corpse of Ronald Adair doesn’t talk back. 

“Death got your tongue?” Seb laughs at his own joke. “Serves you right.” Fucker couldn’t handle the pressure of winning. Claimed he had a guilty conscience or something. 

“Like fuck I was going to let you turn me in,” Seb monologues to the body. “My life is already shit without you going and tattling about cheating -fucking cheating!-of all things.” That’s the problem with people like Adair. All talk, no follow through. No guts. Sebastian hates people like the rich young man, shallow and greedy. Useless. 

“Now, my Boss, he knew how to follow through. Followed his own game into the fucking grave.”

Thinking about Jim makes Seb angry. He throws the bottle at Ronald’s head. It explodes just above the red splash of brains on the wall—evidence that Seb is drunker than he thought. He never misses. 

He should go home. Seb, with some effort, stands, swaying like the floor is rocking beneath him. Where will he sleep tonight? Another bare mattress, in a bare room? In a flat he hasn’t stepped foot in since moving in with Jim-

Fuck Jim. Sebastian scowls, pouting. He’s the reason Seb is out here in the first place, squandering away his days playing cards (cheating at cards, really) and drinking himself to death. How long’s it been anyway, three...four weeks? 

Seb still feels the burning heat of anger in his chest, banked by betrayal simmering deep below. Jim left him. Jim did this to him. Jim doesn’t care about him, clearly he never did because then he wouldn’t have done That. 

“I’m not done yet.” He mutters, revenge pushing him out into the foggy London night. Ronald Adair is a passing thought, quickly overwhelmed by his sudden desire to get his finger on a trigger. 

It drives him up to the residential side of London, to a familiar flat. He stands across the street and looks up at the window, a black silhouette profiled in a yellow square of warm light. Sherlock Holmes. That sanctimonious bastard. 

Seb’s life is already ruined. 

He might as well ruin it a little more. One last hunt. 

A rifle, not his own, is still hidden under drywall and canvas in the empty flat opposite Baker street. A remnant of Jim’s master plan. Its covered in dust, and still locked away in its case. Never used. 

“I’ll finish what you started, Jim.” Seb mutters, “Since you’ve lost the nerve to do it yourself.” 

Sirens wail in the backdrop of London street traffic. Seb tunes it out, already falling into the trance that he revels in, letting the calm sink over him as he puts the rifle together. Each piece slots cleanly together, making a satisfying click. This is what he lives for. The calm before the storm. Where nothing else matters except his breathing and the scene through the scope.

The crosshairs float until they settle right on the head of the silhouette, still framed beautifully by the window. Seb smirks. “Thank you.”

The shot is perfect, the alcohol in his blood no match for his finely tuned skills with a rifle. 

Seb has a moment to revel in the adrenaline rush before the door slams behind him. He doesn’t even get a chance to turn around before a boot is kicking him down to the floor, hands pulling his arms behind his back.

“Sebastian Moran, you are under arrest for the murder of Ronald Adair. You have the right-“

A maniac grin stretches across Seb’s face as he is read his rights and is dragged none-too-gently into a squad car. 

He’s done. 

He finally got Holmes.  
^^^^

Sebastian has the worst fucking headache of his life. Being arrested didn’t help. Every movement of the shitty car ride had rattled him and likely shaken his shoulders out. Felt like it. He grimaces and rolls his shoulders, even though it won’t help. He rolls his head back, but all that does is remind him about the crick in his neck. Even his teeth hurt. 

This is why he fucking hates jail. It’s literally giving him a headache. He doesn’t get a phone-call either, which he knows is illegal, somewhere. 

What he gets is a dark room. This shouldn’t be familiar. He shouldn’t be able to compare dungeons he’s been in at several rather low points in his life, and tell you which one was better because at least it had sunlight. He’s restrained. Rather cliché to tether him to a chair, Seb thinks, not- not at all hysterically. Everyone knows how the chair scene goes, this isn’t intimidating. It’s boring. That’s what Jim would say. 

“You’re boring.” He grins, to an empty room. Sebastian knows there’s going to be cameras somewhere. He isn’t supposed to know about those. But he knows a dungeon when he sees one. This isn’t Scotland Yard. At least the cops there pretend to follow rules. 

Sebastian begins to think, for the first time, that he might be in trouble. Just a little bit. Because again. It’s a chair. He’s sitting down. He could do this for hours. Literally. 

What if they do? Leave you for hours. How long can you sit still, Sebastian, for once in your life, sit still. 

God, he’s bored. Bored. Just like Jim. This is Jim’s fault anyway. If Jim had been around, he’d have stopped Sebastian from killing Ronald Adair. Carrying out a petty grudge, he’d say. 

But Sebastian knows he’d have defied Jim and gone after Ronald anyway. He knew he’d kill the man once he’d looked into his eyes and could see that little worm was going to squeal to the authorities. That little pit of hate in his gut that urged him onward. Always keep moving forward. 

Except he can’t move. Right. 

Then there’s a change, a scent on the air that he knows. Sandalwood. He knows Jim before he even sees him. Doesn’t know how he got in here unnoticed. Unseen, unheard, even by Seb.  
Well. Better late than never. Last words and all that. 

“It’s your fault.”

“Do you know.” Jim rolls his head, audible pops coming from his neck. Seb wants to tell him to get a fucking chiropractor, Jim can certainly afford it, but he keeps quiet in the interest of world peace. "How much time I spent looking for you?” 

Seb scoffs. Five minutes likely. Jim doesn’t even give him the time of day when they’re living together. He certainly didn’t care for Sebastian’s opinion as an employee. Or as a friend, or anything. NOW? Now, he wants to talk? After everything he’s done. 

“About as much time as I spent trying to save your life? Or stop you from-”. Seb inhales, counting seconds. “I don’t think you’ve ever spent any time on me. You’re too far gone on the game and Holmes”, Seb feels his face twist in a humorless sneer. Baring his teeth. “You want to die so badly, go and do it! I’m not going to try and stop you.” 

“I don’t.” 

Seb squeezes his eyes shut, as if he could get out of this conversation by refusing to look at Jim. He can’t even move, leave. There’s no exit. 

“What?” He asks, just to break the unbearable tension hanging thickly in the air. 

“I don’t want to die.” Jim says, as if Seb doesn’t have several differing memories of the same rooftop covered in blood, or the bedroom, or of Jim, cold and white and unmoving. As if he hasn’t spent the last Day watching Jim run straight toward his death with a smile. 

“I can’t do this.” 

He’s held Jim’s corpse in his arms. He’d -fuck- he’d cried his arse off over this wanker. Jim HAD died, several times. Lying, he has to be. Seb doesn’t have any proof that this is the last time Jim will do this to him. 

Jim looks surprised, like that’s not what he was expecting Sebastian to say. Good. He can experience the feeling for once. 

“Excuse me?” And long ago, that tone would have made Sebastian shiver to his toes. 

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” Seb wants nothing more to be out of this room, out of this chair, literally tied down while Jim preaches at him. No. Fuck that, he won’t let Jim do this to him anymore. 

“If you want me to act like your therapist, you’d better get me out of here first.” 

Jim smirks. “Are you sure? I know you enjoy-”

Sebastian snarls wordlessly at him.

Jim does get him out of the chair, making Sebastian tense, muscles trembling, with the knife he pulls out to cut the ropes, straps, whatever was holding him down. He doesn’t say anything as he follows Jim down halls and corridors. He doesn’t wonder why Jim can walk through the middle of what Seb is assuming is some sort of secret government holding cells, in a trade-mark expensive ass suit like he’s strolling through the park. He doesn’t ask about cameras. Seb knows better by now. 

They walk out of the building, and Seb has never been so glad to see a shitty overcast London morning. He stops, even though they haven’t gotten very far from the secret dungeon. Even the wind chilling his face is welcome after that whole ordeal. He can sense Jim beside him, even though Seb doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes on the sky. Clouds are pretty today. 

Well. That happened. Sebastian starts walking, with no idea where he’s going. There’s a pause, in which he thinks that maybe- and no, that’s Jim’s quick footsteps behind him. 

“You said we’d talk-”

“Yeah!? It’s called a lie.” Seb flashes Jim a feral grin. “I lied. Go fuck yourself.” 

Jim takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and composing himself with no small effort. 

“No. I’m not leaving you again.”

“I don’t care. I’m leaving, Jim. Don’t follow me.” He hears nothing but his own heavy breathing, keeping down the fury clawing at his chest as he about faces and marches down the closest side street, back ramrod straight. 

Jim doesn’t follow him. Seb doesn’t know if the disquieting feeling slinking around in his skin is disappointment, or something else. He does know that he’d love to punch something right now. 

“You can’t leave, Sebastian.” Jim calls after him in a sing-song voice. 

Seb stops walking. “And why is that?” 

“Because I choose you.”

What the fuck is that meant to be? Shitty ass confession, and an even worse apology. Seb doesn’t know why he’s still standing here, leaning back towards Jim like there’s a line connecting them, drawing him back again and again to this infuriating mess of a person. 

“I don’t care.” Sebastian finally manages to push the words from between gritted teeth, leaving him with the ghostly sensation of dried blood on his lips. 

And he leaves. 

Jim watches him slink away, eyes dark. He knows how this game goes. Wait for his words to sink into Sebastian’s thick skull. Wait for him to process and work his way through whatever sort of feelings a man like Sebastian Moran has. (You never bothered to ask.)

Jim hates waiting. He scowls. At least he’s not repeating the same day over anymore. That was enough to make anyone want to...well.


	7. Bit of Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, more whump. I'm quite mean to Seb in this chapter,,,sorry.
> 
> TW for blood, violence, injury, swearing, capture, torture

“Jim.” Seb sighs. His stalker slides into the dark green, slightly grimy metal chair opposite him and gestures to the coffee girl. The off-brand café bustling. No matter what time it is, people's demand for caffeine never faltered. She obeys with a speed that is half professionalism, half fear. Seb bites at his lip in irritation. It’s like the smaller man doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no. The common sounds of a café, clinking spoons against cheap dishware, the faint whir of a blender, and a chorus of giggles from a pack of hyper teen girls by the register all serve to, if not put Sebastian at ease, then at least give him something else to focus on so he doesn’t kick Jim’s chair over and kick the shit out of him. Sebastian at least wants to get his coffee first. 

Jim ignores him, and gives his order to the harried barista, while Seb glares at him from under heavy brows. Jim doesn't take his hint, and scoots his chair in with an annoying scratch of metal on pavement. It's too cold to be sitting outside, but you tell yourself that you like it. The breeze feels nice on your face anyway, and you're hoping Jim will get sick of frozen toes and go home. Go back to his home. Not theirs. 

“You don’t even like coffee.” Sebastian mutters, knowing that Jim drinks it anyway just for the caffeine. Only if he’s desperate. 

“But I like the sprinkles on top.”

“Cold coffee is a disgrace.” 

“I would never have assumed a vet like you would be such a bean juice aficionado. You mean you don’t drink it pitch black?” Jim’s mocking him, and Sebastian has to clench his jaw, hoping that the grind of his teeth isn’t audible. 

Jim is served his peppermint monstrosity at lightning speed. The barista practically throws the bright red and white drink at him. Seb wrinkles his nose and looks down at Jim with a curled upper lip at his offer to taste it. He hates peppermint, and Jim is well aware of this. Bastard. Seb sips his own, significantly cooled, plain black coffee, and pointedly does not think about spooning honey into it. He sets the mug down, and smiles like his tongue isn’t shriveling up. 

“You got what you wanted. You left. You won. Whatever. You finished your stupid game, and I’m done too. You don’t get to order me around anymore, Jim.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sebastian does his best not to inhale as Jim leans in. Can’t help himself anyway. Jim smells like expensive peppermint lotion. Petty Bastard. 

His fingers tighten around the ceramic mug, it’s blue, and chipped on one side. Seb clings to it, like it can protect him from having to do this. Like if he stares into the rich textured ochre long enough, Jim will eventually get bored and wonder away. Sebastian usually doesn't run from a fight. So he takes a deep breath and holds it, imagining viewing Jim's face through the frame of a magnifying lenses, through a pair of crosshairs. 

“You died.” Sebastian keeps his voice level, and for that, he is thankful. Nerves of steel. Show no fear. No weakness. “You made it perfectly clear that the only person you care about is yourself.”

“Do I look dead to you?” Jim spreads his arms out wide, the dramatic little fuck. 

“It still happened. You made your choice. Over and over and…” Seb can feel himself talking faster, and his damned ruddy face heating up like it always does when Jim winds him up. “I had to watch you die, Jim. I mourned for you. I fucking- I cried over your body. I was ready to bury you. The least you could do is stay dead.” 

This isn’t where he would have chosen to have this conversation. It’s too open. He would rather not be having this conversation at all. He’d rather shoot himself in the face, poor humor intended. 

Jim’s face is porcelain. A doll’s perfect mask of blank pleasantness. “I see. So the fact that everything has reset means-”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The world might have forgotten what you did. But I won’t. How can I, when you keep acting like nothing happened! I have to look at your face, and pretend that I didn’t see it blue and cold and lifeless. Do you really expect me to act like everything is back to normal?!” 

“Nothing permanent-”

“You lost your empire! You lost your bloody life! You SHOT me! I got thrown in jail!” The last one isn’t as important really. But Seb hasn’t had to deal with any authorities other than Jim since he’d started working for the man. Being arrested wasn’t just an indignity. It was downright insulting. 

Jim rolls his eyes, like a child.   
“Because you killed a man in a childish tantrum. Honestly, Sebastian. I hardly forced you to do those actions. Your own petty rage does that all by itself.”

“Yeah? You don’t help!” Sebastian feels his whole neck getting red. Knows Jim can see it. Hates himself for acting exactly like Jim likes to tease him about. Getting angry and reactive. 

Against all rational thought, Jim reaches out to do what, Sebastian doesn’t know. He doesn’t give Jim the chance to complete the action. He seizes Jim’s wrists with his own hands, squeezing angrily. 

“I’m trying to apologize!” Jim growls at him, low, like an angry house cat. Seb's fingers dig tighter into Jim’s porcelain wrists, untrimmed nails breaking the skin. Does it hurt? It must. Good. It should hurt. Sebastian squeezes harder. 

Despite the pain evident in the shaking of his tendons, Jim’s face is placid and calm. Seb only lets go when the barista looks over and frowns. Jim orders a second frappuccino. Sebastian curls his hands into fists under the table, digging the crescent of his nails into his palms rhythmically. 

“I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it.” Sebastian pulls him close, until he can smell the mint on Jim’s breath. “I will never forgive you, James Moriarty.”  
Then he stands up, tosses a couple of quid on the table, and very consciously doesn’t march as he runs away.   
^^^^  
Jim drops his head into his hands. 

“Boyfriend trouble?” The barista asks. Jim resists the automatic urge to stab her. 

“Honey, you have no idea.” He murmurs, raising his head from his hands to stare bleakly into the middle distance. 

Did he even say sorry? Jim review the conversation. As much as he’d been trying to apologize, Jim doesn’t think he’d actually said the words ‘I’m sorry.” 

God, why was having a conversation so hard? Jim feels like he’s forgotten how to interact with people, with anyone. Usually he can fake it, smile and ask the right questions. But lately his rhythm has been thrown off. He doesn’t have the right words anymore. Nothing sounds right. 

Sebastian should have been the easiest person to talk to. He lived (used to live) with the man for god’s sake. Sebastian was hired to be his right hand man, though of course Jim had never told him that. Wouldn’t do for the man to get a big head. It was bad enough that he would have to know anything about Jim. It was bad enough that he could look at Jim’s impenetrable face and somehow know exactly what Jim was thinking. That was supposed to be Jim’s thing, the mind reading. 

“I’ll take your check if you need to leave.” She says, somehow still hovering over the table. 

Jim swivels his head to stare at her. She returns it, not breaking eye contact. 

“You might be able to catch him.” She adds, adding to Jim’s slight paranoia that he’s in a hallmark movie. 

Not trusting himself to speak, Jim nods and hands her his card. His vision finally focuses as he’s dreamily staring across the street, and he can feel every muscle in his body tense, try as he might to get himself to relax. There’s a pair of dark sunglasses watching him from across the street. It might be self centered to think that anyone would be watching him. If he were not at the top of every influential person in London’s shit-list. There’s no such thing as coincidence. 

Jim decides to sit back in the chair, and order a third drink. The barista gives him a look for that, but in the goodness of his heart Jim ignores it and pulls out his phone. He has some urgent calls to make. 

^^^  
Figures that he’d get kidnapped right in the middle of having some sort of crisis. No, can’t let Sebastian have five goddamn minutes to sort through the yarn ball of feelings in his chest, feeling like a cat has been playing with it. And setting it on fire. No, he gets fucking dragged into a van. He's hit with an uncomfortable flashback of the same moment, except he was the one doing the kidnapping before. Unsurprisingly, being on the victim side of things is shitty. Seb feels an unexpected comradery with John Watson, which makes him want to upchuck on principle. 

And they’re good, he can tell how professional his abductors are by the way they stick him with a fucking gigantic needle that sedates him immediately. Sebastian will be allowed no chances to escape, or do anything but pass out. He tries to get a view of their faces, the car make, what street he thinks he was on-- anything. But his vision blurs like a Van Gogh painting and all the colors melt together. 

When he wakes up - God, how he wishes he wasn’t waking up - it’s black. Whether this means it’s dark, or he has a black hood over his head, Sebastian can’t tell. Once again, his head pounds like he’s got a hangover. Lovely. He reaches for ibuprofen that by this point in his life he’s eating like candy, but he can’t move his arms. Or his legs. Or his head. 

At least he’s not in a fucking chair again. 

A table, however, Sebastian would have to say is objectively worse than a chair. It carries more...medical...connotations that he doesn’t care for. He also doesn’t like being splayed flat on his back, belly splayed for someone to carve into. Nope, don’t care for that though at all. Maybe it’s a normal, not at all kinky, non-torture table. Seb doubts it. 

Is it weird that he’s rather hoping this is another one of Jim’s sick games, instead of who he thinks it is?   
This doesn't really happen that often to him, so it's weird that he's been abducted twice in one week. Technically, he doesn't think the police count as kidnappers, but hey. He's the one strapped down with a giant headache. What does he know. 

He tries to twist out of his restraints on principle, feeling no give. Then he tries to pull himself away from the table, ripping away from his restraints with pure strength. Nothing happens, except that he gets a cramp in his right thigh.

Alright. Guess he’s fucked. 

Seb slams his head against the hard metal table, taking advantage of the only range of movement he has. The back of his head begins to satisfyingly throb. 

He’s done shit like this before. Quite recently, actually. And he still hates it. Can’t stand being restrained. Except.... Even now, Sebastian can’t help but think of Jim. Why? You idiot, he’s not going to come for you. You told him to fuck off. You left. You’re on your own. 

His father used to bail him out of jail, when he was a sullen and black eyed teen. His men had his back, when he was held hostage in a small desert town named [CENSORED]. And Jim. Jim always was there after that. 

They don’t give him the courtesy of pretending to ask questions, heading straight to the fun bits. Seb’s barely conscious by the end of the beating. His whole face is swollen. Jaw’s definitely broken. 

At some point, he’s hauled off the table, for what, Seb can’t imagine. (He’ll pretend not to.) Then he’s being assaulted from all sides, and he can’t even raise his arms up in a basic block, he’s so wobbly. Then he’s back on the table, and he must pass out again, because he wakes up and he’s still strapped down - fucking damn it - and everywhere hurts. 

He thinks at least two ribs are cracked, though his whole chest feels like it's caved in. A heavy weight on his chest, making breathing excruciating, Legs? Still there. He’s shivering and shaking like a victim of hypothermia, limbs jerking against his will against his leather bindings. 

It’s freezing in here. He can’t actually feel his toes, or his fingers. Probably a bad thing, but he can’t muster up the energy to worry. He’s trying to stay as still as possible in the hopes that he might fall asleep. Or pass out. 

But he can’t, because his face is on fire. It wouldn’t hurt so much if he could stop shivering. His jaw is clenched so tight that stars burst before his eyes when he can’t help his teeth chattering. 

Seb remembers feeling cold suddenly, so cold like he was turning to ice. The blood had gushed from his body, from a bullet hole in his flesh. Twice, actually. Once was by Jim’s hand. He remembers dying. But he’s alive. And yet he recognizes this cold and Seb is caught with the sudden anxiety that he’s dying again.

No. Not like this. Not tied down like a dog. He can’t die, he doesn’t want to die, why is he here-

It takes a long time for his frantic heartbeat to slow, and for his breathing to take on a slightly less labored quality. Impossible for him to know how long. Time crawls by in the dark. When he’s certain he’s not dying, Seb forces himself to take full breaths, counting seconds in his head. He flexes his fingers, grateful that his torturers hadn’t gotten around to breaking his digits. He needs his hands. 

“We really have to stop meeting like this.” 

Seb jerks, ignoring the pain the action causes. He knows that smug asshole voice. “Jim!” 

He came He came He came even though you told him you were leaving him Jim’s here Thank you God Jesus it’s really him. 

“Once is experimenting, twice means you have a kink, darling.” 

“Not. Funny.” Seb grits out. 

“Just look at you.” Jim slides out of the shadows, a grey silhouette against the black background. He reaches for Sebastian’s head. Seb turns his face away, but can’t avoid Jim’s fingers skimming over his skin, freshly purpled. “You poor thing.” 

Then there’s a hand in his mouth and that’s it. Pain spirals into his brain as he forgets about his jaw, and bites down on reflex. 

Jim curses and snatches his hand back. “Just checking you weren’t dead.” 

Seb’s too busy moaning in pain, cursing Jim and himself for being an idiot. Why did he have to bite down? 

Thankfully, Jim doesn’t waste any more time with banter, and starts undoing the ridiculous amount of buckles securing the leather straps. Seb almost giggles watching Jim swear and fiddle with the metal, and that’s how he knows he’s probably going to pass out again. 

Jim looks up, “-bastian, no.”

Too late. 

He’s woken up by exploding pain in his face, and jerks, eyes wide open to see Jim lowering an offending hand. 

“Sorry,” He shrugs, not looking very sorry. Seb’s still floored, because Jim never apologizes for anything. Jim had gotten everything undone while Seb had taken a sudden nap, so Seb tries to stand on his own two legs. It doesn’t work, and he catches himself with an arm on the table before he collapses. 

Before he can really register what’s happening, Jim is ducking under his other arm. Is he...trying to help? Seb’s hesitant to shift his weight over, unreasonably (or perhaps, perfectly reasonably) afraid that Jim will drop him on purpose. Jim shrugs him into place impatiently, and they shuffle towards the door. 

Seb honestly doesn’t remember much after that. Blank moments of missing time block out his memory, but he does remember hearing screams. And gunfire? He gets the feeling that Jim isn’t alone, but even that passive deduction is too much effort, and it’s easier for him to surrender to unconsciousness. 

^^^  
A hand in his hair. Not pulling, but running through it. S’nice, so Seb allows it. A prickling sensation in his lips, as well as his cheeks, and Seb recognizes anesthetic when he feels it. Thank god, because he had the feeling that his jaw was going to feel worse than the time he’d tried to out-macho getting his wisdom teeth taken out, and ended up crying at the local pharm while his brother paid for the meds he had neglected to take. And he’d been a teenager then. Guess he hasn’t grown out of his stupidity. 

Jesus, did he get into a fight? He thinks that a few ribs are absolutely broken- and then he remembers. 

The hand in his hair stills, and he can sense the quiet breath of a living being next to him hitch slightly. And then-

“Sebastian?”

He makes a sort of groaning sound, because he’s discovering that he can’t actually move his jaw at all, it seems to be tightly bound. Probably a good thing. 

The person, the most annoying person Sebastian’s ever met, bends over him. Sandalwood tickles his nose, and he can smell the mint on Jim’s breath as he leans forward. There’s a brief moist sensation on his forehead and- Did Jim just kiss his forehead?

“I got you a good doctor.” Jim says. “Don’t worry, you don’t know him.” 

Not funny, Seb wants to say, but he’s falling back asleep.


	8. Seb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tired of Angst? Just want your favorite characters to catch a break? How about some domestic fluff! No angst, I promise!* :))))))
> 
> *(Okay, a little bit of angst. I can't help it.)

Sebastian wakes with a start, heart pounding like it’s trying to bust out of his ribcage. He knows he is not where he last fell asleep. The material underneath him is scratchy and thin. It feels like it’s been starched past the point of whiteness. The thin sheet covering him does nothing to combat the slight chill in the room. Cool air brushes his skin and makes the hair stand up on his arms. His heart races, no matter how much he wishes it to stop. The sharp scent of bleach hits his nose first. Distant footsteps echo past the small room he’s woken up in.

Opening his eyes feels like running a marathon, and he’s already exhausted as florescent light makes him squint. The walls around him are painted a pale blue. Seb hisses through his teeth at the sight of a monitor that beeps regularly. The fucking hospital. What’s he done now?

He’s in a private room, which is a bit fancy for his ilk, but he’s glad for it nonetheless. He finally manages to blink away the heavy blanket of sleep, and what feels like a boatload of drugs being pumped into him via a clear iv bag. Ah, morphine. The good shit. Nice.

He’s probably not dying then. Seb consciously regulates his breathing until he feels like his heart isn’t going to make a run for it. Sweat dampens the mint green hospital robe he’s been dressed in. Seb grimaces, adverse to the thought of someone else, even a medical professional undressing him.

He almost succumbs to the temptation to let his heavy eyelids fall shut again, but the pricking in his hindbrain won’t let him. There’s someone else in the room with him. Maybe his CO? Sebastian tries to throw his mind back to the events that had landed him in the hospital, and comes up with nothing. Well, he’s sure his superior officer will be happy to enlighten him to all the different ways he’d fucked up this week, so he turns his head as much as he is able to his left, where he can hear someone’s sharp inhalation.

He opens his eyes, not to his Sargent’s pissed off, scowl-wrinkled face, but to dark, hollowed eyes watching him intently.

And he remembers.

“You came back for me.” He says. Well, he tries to say it, but he can’t move his jaw. Even the attempt sends shooting pains up through his skull and a migraine immediately forms behind his eyes.

Right. His jaw is wrapped up tight.

Seb reaches up to feel his face. Jim makes an aborted motion, but he catches himself. Remembering the last time he’d tried touching Sebastian without permission. Jim’s hand hovers in mid-air for a brief second before he retracts. Sebastian is caught off guard by the powerful longing he experiences at Jim’s rare uncertainty, unsure himself if he wishes that Jim’s hand had finished the gesture. Then he’s annoyed at himself for imagining how cooling Jim’s touch would be on his skin. Stupid. As if Jim would ever do such a thing.

Sebastian does not like how this week is making him look like a damsel in distress. He’s the one who was supposed to protect Jim, not the other way around.

His face is swollen and puffy. Naturally, it hurts when he pokes at it, which Jim glares at him for.

“The doctor wanted to wire it shut. Luckily for you, I convinced her to wrap it instead.” Jim says smugly.

Seb holds out his hand, and Jim raises an eyebrow, but places a phone in his palm. It’s familiar in his grip. As he turns it over, he realizes that it’s the phone he’d left behind in their- Jim’s flat weeks ago. Seb stares at it. He’d never expected to see this phone again.

He looks at his reflection in the black screen, and manages to frown with only the upper half of his face. With the white cloth wrapped under his chin and tied on the crown of his head, he looks like fucking Jacob Marley, which he supposes would make Jim the ill-tempered Scrooge. The thought almost makes him laugh, but he remembers himself in time and manages not to fuck his jaw up any worse.

Since he can’t speak, he attempts to communicate his ire at being here through his eyes. Jim knows how much he hates hospitals. Seb has a pretty impressive scowl, made edgier by the scars crisscrossing his face. Jim, of course, has seen it a million times, and returns it with bitch face #6 you’d better deal with it.

Jim snatches his phone from him, and opens it. Seb’s annoyed, but not surprised. There’s no passcode he could think of that Jim wouldn’t guess. Jim hands it back to him, a chat app open. Seb stares at the blurry single line of text until it comes into focus.

**I have more to say.**

No shit. If their positions were reversed, Seb reckons he’d literally have to sew Jim’s mouth shut to keep him from talking. 

Typing is a chore, not helped by the stabbing pain in his brain. Jim’s finger taps a staccato beat on his knee, but Sebastian ignores it, taking his time. 

**You’re really going to force me to have this conversation with a broken jaw?**

  
Jim peers at the text, then gives him flat mouthed expression  _ # 7 Maybe, bitch. _

But he gives Sebastian the phone back, and relaxes into his seat, crossing his arms.  Jim tilts his head back and his long, long eyelashes flutter to his cheek.

Sebastian narrows his eyes. Jim isn’t going to push this? He loves pushing at Sebastian’s boundaries. He supposes that he should just take the strangely peaceful silence for what it is, but suspicion keeps him staring at Jim, daring the man to say something else, anything. To antagonize, to cut and jibe and make the blood rush to Sebastian’s face. Jim doesn’t give in. Ever.

But Jim’s already leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Then he pulls up a knee, lowers it, sticks both legs out, and finally contents himself with throwing a leg over one arm of the chair, wiggling to try and make his seat bearable. Sebastian stares at Jim’s feet. His shoes are off, black socks exposed to the air. It’s weird, like seeing your boss naked. (Technically he has seen Jim naked, many times, but his brain’s too tired to come up with a better simile.) Jim’s shoes are tumbled on the floor. His vest is undone, and his tie, while not completely off, is looser than Seb’s ever seen it. His suit is utterly wrinkled. Jim looks like he’s been sitting there for hours, only Sebastian knows that can’t be true. Jim wouldn’t waste time waiting for an unconscious man to wake up. But he can’t ignore the evidence of his eyes that tell him Jim’s been here the whole time.

Jim looks up at him. “Did you need something, Sebastian?”

Seb hesitates. Jim doesn’t look impatient, or bored. He doesn’t look like anything, face still, like he’s trying his best not to emote at all.

He mimes holding a cup to his mouth, and watches as Jim summons a nurse and communicates his needs to them. The nurse returns swiftly with ice cubes, which Sebastian can just barely slip past his lips. He lets them melt, glancing over to Jim, who hasn’t done anything else but stare at him the whole time.

He hasn’t been the center of Jim’s full attention for a long time. He’d almost forgotten how paralyzing the man’s gaze was, how exposed he felt, like Jim could read everything about him from one look. Seb can’t find it in him to hold eye contact for long, and he looks down at his hands, annoyed at himself once more. Why won’t Jim just go away? Hasn’t he caused Sebastian enough suffering already?

But Jim stays, as he eventually falls asleep. He’s there when Sebastian wakes up, upside down in the chair with his feet in the air, and his phone held out in front of him, like a child that’s been told not to leave their seat but refuses to sit politely. Past a certain point, the nurses start giving Jim pointed looks, which Seb interprets to mean get the fuck out. Jim of course, acts like he’s completely unaware of their presence.

Seb puts a hand to his mouth, miming holding food. Jim reaches for the button to summon a nurse, but Seb shakes his head and points savagely to Jim. He’s certain Jim hasn’t ingested any sort of substances since entering the hospital.

Jim rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Sebastian glares at him.

He does manage to get Jim to eat the jello off his tray when his food is brought to him. There’s more than enough anyway. It’s one of the only foods he can eat easily without having to open his mouth too far. He tries to get Jim to eat the mashed potatoes too, because he doesn’t want to touch the grey stuff. Jim gives him a look, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

He shouldn’t be so worried about what his former boss does or doesn’t eat. He shouldn’t care. He told Jim he was done. But the dark bags under Jim’s eyelids still trouble him. He looks pale, and thin, more like a worn out rag doll than the king of crime he’s supposed to be. He looks, Seb thinks, human. Just tired and sore like the rest of them, like anyone would be after sitting for hours by their love- their partner’s side.

Once they’re certain Sebastian isn’t going to spontaneously keel over, Jim convinces the doctor to release him. She isn’t happy about it, but what Jim wants, Jim gets. He can obviously see how agitated Sebastian is, just laying in the white bed, listening for every pair of footsteps outside the door.

The doctor prescribes him painkillers and antibiotics to ward off infection, doing her best to impress how important it is that he takes them everyday.

“I’ll make sure he does.” Jim smiles winningly at her.

Sebastian would challenge the assumption that he’s going to be staying with Jim, but no one is paying attention to him, as usual. He’s not happy when he learns that he’s going to be put on a liquid diet for up to a month or two. A man needs meat, he can’t live off soup! Alright, technically, he could, but he’s not about that kind of life. Jim catches his belligerent expression and returns it with a look that says he WILL eat what he’s given, and he will NOT have a choice in the matter.

Finally, Sebastian is discharged into Jim’s tender care. Seb’s convinced that there’s a great likelihood he’ll be dead by the end of the week, and does not want to get into the ugly bright green car. He’s shocked to see Jim open the driver’s side door, and slide the keys into the ignition. Since when does Jim drive?

Five minutes into the ride convinces him that Jim CAN’T drive. He clutches the ‘oh shit’ handle for dear life, and triple checks that his seat belt is locked as Jim swerves around cars and cuts off every truck he possibly can. He eases his weight onto his legs in an attempt to stop his body from shaking, hissing every time his teeth clack together. The ride is hell on his jaw. The seatbelt is the only thing between him and certain death by being flung out the windscreen. Every jolt of the car pulls the strap tight against his bruised chest. Jim doesn’t seem to notice his distress, distracted by honking at other drivers, and flipping off the ones who roll down their windows to curse at him.

Sebastian practically hurls himself out of the car the moment Jim puts it into park. It takes him a moment to gage his surroundings. Small, uniform houses sit in tidy rows in front of green gardens, each with a mailbox in front. What the hell? They’re in suburbia?

“We’re laying low, Sebastian.” Jim says as he breezes past him. “Welcome to domesticity.”

Sebastian wonders if he’s having a nightmare. He wonders if he’s going to wake up the next morning to a shrieking kettle, and the feeling of grit under his nails. Ringing in his ears, and blood pooling in his mouth from the tongue he’d bitten down on.

“-eb?”

He looks up, black and green auroras dancing before his eyes. His lungs burn, and Seb realizes he’s been holding his breath. Jim pauses in the doorway of the house, brow furrowing.

“Are you going to stand there all day? The neighbors will talk.”

Neighbors. He and Jim have neighbors. The thought makes his lips twitch upward. Well, if nothing else, this is going to be interesting. He steps inside, watching Jim’s arse as it sways in front of him. Perks of the job.

Sebastian makes a private bet with himself that Jim won’t be able to last a week in their new home. It’s large enough, about as big as the luxury flat Jim owns. Owned? Seb realizes he hasn’t a clue of what Jim’s been up to for the last couple of weeks. Apparently he’s been busy moving house. From his brief glance at their surroundings, Sebastian recognizes a few familiar items. Jim’s laptop, always open and on. Shoes, both of theirs. Dishes in the sink. The house looks lived in.

The first day passes by in a haze. Seb’s conked out on pain meds for most of it, and he relishes the opportunity to lay in bed and just relax. It’s been a while since he’d given himself a break, and before that, Jim ran him ragged. He doesn't spare Jim much thought, too occupied between the strange, almost real dreams that the painkillers give him, and the aches and pains from the various bruises across his body.

He supposes that someone must have changed his clothes, putting him in soft flannel pajamas that he thinks look rather silly and would never have chosen for himself. The bottoms have paw-prints on them, and the top has a curled smile framed by whiskers. Someone must have made the broth appear on the end table within reach. Someone opened and closed the blinds to allow sunlight to stream in on the rare occasions that it wasn’t raining. But it couldn’t have been Jim. Jim didn’t touch him, outside of sex. Jim didn’t cook. Jim Moriarty doesn’t clean.

But then, who was pointedly running the hoover just outside his door? Sebastian groans, shoving his pillow over his head in an attempt to block the noise from his ears. Maybe if he waits long enough the noise will stop. He waits for five minutes. Then five more. Then he rolls himself out of bed, cursing.

He doesn’t believe what he sees when he opens the door. It is Jim hoovering obnoxiously. Seb’s gaze is immediately drawn to his bare legs, which are white and bony, and clad in orange and blue basketball shorts that Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, wouldn’t be caught dead in. He’s got earbuds in, naturally, and doesn’t even spare Seb a glance in his mission to wake the entire neighborhood.

Sebastian marches to the wall, unplugs the cord, and stomps back to his room.

This time, he’s sure he’s having a nightmare. He closes his eyes. Exhaustion makes his bones heavy, and he sinks into the mattress, groaning quietly.

A few minutes pass.

The hoover starts up again.

“Oh my fucking god,” Seb moans.

^^^

Jim seems to have cleaned the entire fucking house in the two days Sebastian was in bed. He supposes, grudgingly, that it’s better than Jim’s usual go-to, which is to destroy everything in the immediate vicinity.

By the third day, Sebastian’s dying for a steak, and he thinks he’ll implode if he lounges about in bed any longer. He checks the fridge. Leftover soup. He checks the freezer. Nothing. He checks the pantry. There’s just more soup. It’s all soup. Sebastian wonders what Jim’s eating, until he goes through the trash and finds take-out boxes. That little shit.

Jim reminds him that he’s on a liquid diet. Sebastian tells Jim to go fuck himself. Jim does not take the bait and give Sebastian the fight he so desperately craves. He stands, hands casually tucked into his pockets, calm and poised, while Sebastian feels increasingly like an ass. He’d feel better if only Jim would shout at him, or shove him around a bit. Take the piss out of him.

“If you’re tired of soup,” Jim says, “I can make you a smoothie instead.”

“Who are you?!” Sebastian signs clumsily, his movements wild and gesticulating. He knows a bit of BSL from his days in Uni.

He thinks it's a valid question. Jim never cooked, in their old life. Sebastian didn’t think he knew how. The old Jim would have rather died than stay in one place, let alone three days in the most ordinary, boring neighborhood in the world.

This could be another one of his games, another personality that Jim pulls over himself like a second skin. It could be another Richard Brook. Sebastian hated Brook, hated his stutter and his awkward gait, the way he couldn’t maintain eye contact. The way he giggled, the way he looked at Sebastian from under silky eyelashes. Sebastian couldn’t stand looking at him, unable to see a trace of cool, calculating, brilliant Jim.

“I’m staying.” Jim signs flawlessly, which doesn’t answer Sebastian’s question, but whatever.

He flips Jim the V, not knowing the signs to properly express his irritation and retreats to his room. Sulking is undignified. Sebastian sulks with all of his might, hoping to create an aura of displeasure that Jim might feel through the door. S’not like he has any dignity left anyway.

He sprawls on the bed, in his paw-print pajamas, and tries not to think about the crooked smile of Richard Brook.

He must fall asleep, because when he jerks up, gasping for breath, it’s dark out. Seb hates how fuzzy his meds make him. Time slips away from him, and Sebastian feels like an old dog put out to pasture. He’s lost his edge. He waits until his heart stops thundering in his ears, not wanting Jim to see him so unsettled. Jim will notice anyway, but Sebastian allows himself this delusion.

Jim is in the kitchen, and Sebastian really has to stop being surprised at every normal thing Jim does before his eyebrows fly right off his forehead.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s called cooking, Sebastian. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“Looks like you’re heating canned soup.”

“Astute observation, as always.”

Sebastian grits his teeth. Pain flashes like lightning up his jaw, burrowing into his brain. Fuck. He keeps forgetting about his jaw. Sebastian inhales slowly, forcing himself to calm down. He clenches his fists, and then slowly relaxes them, imagining his anger seeping out of his muscles like black smoke.

Jim stirs the ladle with dedication, pointedly not looking at Sebastian. Giving him space. It’s so unlike him that Sebastian can’t help but stare, brain skipping like a scratched CD. Jim pushes. Sebastian pushes back. It’s what they do, push until something breaks. But Jim’s stepping back here. He’s not meeting Sebastian's eyes.

He was like this, in those final weeks too. Distant and unseeing, eyes always somewhere else. He went quiet then too. Sebastian had wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but he didn’t dare. Jim hadn’t offered and they went on snapping and ignoring each other in turn until something broke. And that something was Jim-

Someone is talking, he realizes dimly, their voice muffled as if it was coming from another room. He pulls his mind away from the past. Jim swims into focus, brows furrowed. He already has permanent wrinkles on his forehead. A distant part of Seb wants to smooth them away. Wishes he could wipe away the marks left from years of stress and anger.

“What?” He tries to say, then remembers he can’t speak, and brings his hands up to sign instead. But he can’t complete the action, because Jim has them in his grasp, squeezing like a vice. He winces and tries to pull away.

Jim won’t let him go.

“What was that?” He snaps, a spark of anger back in his voice. That reassures Sebastian more than his touch. “Sebastian, where did you go?”

“I was just thinking.” He murmurs, hands tingling. Jim rarely touches him for this long, outside of the bedroom. His hands are really quite strong, for such small slender things. They fucking hurt a lot, actually.

“About what, Sebastian?”

Sebastian keeps studying Jim’s hands. Small scars marr his white skin. Burn scars. Probably scalded himself on the cookware. Seb wonders how many cans of soup he went through before managing to make something that wasn’t blackened and stuck to the pot. And his fingers are rough. Callouses. Has he ever seen calluses on Jim’s hand before?

Those roughened fingers grip his chin, direct his vision to Jim’s eyes. Even they are different, oddly softened. Jim looks...worried.

“Tell me what you were thinking about.” Jim says. Then, “Please.”

Sebastian rolls the please around, tasting it. A pretty word, with sugar on top.

“You,” He taps Jim’s chest. “I was thinking about you.”

Jim’s expression darkens, and he lets go of Sebastian.

They have their dinner in silence, with the fan running and the windows open in the hopes that the smoke will filter out of the house. The soup is overcooked, but Sebastian eats it without complaint.

He thinks about Jim, and his pretty, ruined hands.  
^^^

Sebastian snaps three weeks later at the dinner table.

They have a fucking dinner table, in the open space between the kitchen and the living room. There’s dirty dishes in the sink, and clean ones in the drying rack. Seb wouldn’t believe that Jim does them, except he’s watched the man put on rubber gloves and stick his hands in the soapy water like he’s done it all his life. He now knows that Jim prefers washing his dishes by hand, instead of using the dishwasher right next to the sink. He knows that Jim gets anal about dust, he wipes every surface in the house down every day. Their old flat was always clean, but Sebastian had just assumed that Jim hired a maid. He couldn’t imagine the man taking out the trash in Westwood.

Jim doesn’t wear suits anymore. Where would he wear them? Sebastian hasn’t seen him leave the house since they’d moved in. Someone brings them their groceries. Seb’s never seen who, because Jim always makes sure he’s the one who answers the door. No, instead Jim lounges around in sweats, or basketball shorts when he’s cleaning. Jim owns t-shirts! And actually wears them! Upon closer inspection, Seb recognizes some of the larger t-shirts as his. He doesn’t know how to feel about watching Jim swan about the house in his clothes. Amused maybe, because Jim drowns in the fabric. He looks like a child.

The worst thing is, Jim talks to him. He gossips about their neighbors, even though Sebastian’s sure Jim’s never met any of them. How Jim knows that their next door neighbor is cheating with the couple across the street, he’ll never understand. He talks about the news, which frankly is rather boring. Nothing new has been happening since the most dangerous man in London retired to Bumfuck Nowhere, Suburbia. He even talks about the weather, for fucks sake! Not for the first time in his life, Sebastian wishes the man would just shut up. He doesn’t know how to respond to this steady stream of chatter. How to have a normal conversation.

How can Jim talk to him about the new wildflowers he’d spotted in the garden like nothing’s happened. Like they’re a perfectly ordinary couple who’ve never killed, never tasted other people’s blood on their lips. Like he hadn’t gone off and abandoned Sebastian for Sherlock fucking Holmes. Like he hadn’t shot himself just to get away from-

Seb’s sitting at the dinner table. Jim’s talking about something inane, and then a soup spoon flies past Jim’s ear, which finally shuts him up.

“I’m sick of soup! I hate it! It’s just flavored water with bits in!” Seb shoves his bowl away. Broth splashes over the rim.

“What is this about?” Jim rocks back in his chair.

“Your cooking sucks!”

“I rather thought I was improving.”

“You’re not! When are you going to give it up?!”

“Cooking?” Jim raises an eyebrow. “I thought I might make it a hobby. It’s much more complicated than it looks from mere observation-“

“No! When are you going to give this up! Acting like a fucking housewife! You don’t clean!”

“Well, Sebastian, if you want to take over your fair share of chores all you had to do was ask-”

Sebastian swipes his arm across the table, sending the candlesticks, wine glasses, bowls and his fucking soup to the floor with a tremendous clatter.

“When are you going to stop play-acting!” He roars in Jim’s face. He feels like he’s going to float out of his body. It’s not him raging at Jim like a madman. It’s someone else, someone who doesn’t care about the consequences of his actions. “Will you stop faking it already?! You don’t care! You never have, and I’m done playing games! This stupid domestic fantasy, I’m done with it!”

Jim is silent, still in his seat like a perfect waxen statute of himself.

“I’m done with this.” Sebastian stomps out the door, leaving it swinging behind him. He doesn’t have shoes on, so he slaps his socked feet on wet pavement, angry at the lack of appropriate noise.

His jaw is fucking killing him. Shouting like that had probably broken something. A steady pulse of pain throbs in his teeth, his bones, his skull, thundering in his ears. Seb pats his pockets uselessly. Hadn’t even brought any ibuprofen with him. Stupid. He looks like an idiot, walking around the neighborhood in wet socks.

He comes back four hours later. It would have been two, but all the houses look the same and he refused to ask for directions to his own house.

Guilt strikes him when he sees the floor is clear of any mess, the tile scrubbed and stainless. Jim didn’t have to clean up Seb’s mess. He could have left it for him to take care of.

He feels even worse when he climbs upstairs, words of regret ready on his tongue, and sees Jim’s bedroom door open wide, the room itself dark and clearly empty. The horrid green car is missing from the garage.

He’s driven Jim away.

This is it. He’s pushed Jim too far, and instead of blowing up in his face like Sebastian’s learned to expect, Jim’s just left. Guess he’s not even worth fighting with anymore.

It’s his fault. Of course it is. It’s always been his fault. Too pushy, too needy, too much all the time. He asks for too much and gets nothing in return but regret.

Something black and square catches his attention. Jim’s phone, left deliberately in plain sight on the kitchen counter. So now Jim can’t even be reached. Sebastian sinks to sit on the floor, legs sprawled ungraciously.

Would Jim leave his phone behind though? If he really meant to leave, wouldn’t he take it with him? Sebastian hadn’t. When he left Jim, he’d left everything he owned behind. Jim had permeated every part of his life, and he wanted nothing to do with any of it, so he’d left it all.

He honestly doesn’t expect Jim to come back.

But he’s woken from troubled sleep by the muted thud of the front door swinging shut. He lies awake in bed, listening to small footsteps pattering past his room and up the stairs. The creak of the hinges of Jim’s bedroom door. He’s come home.

For weeks afterward, Seb is on edge, waiting for Jim to strike when he least expects it. Jim’s going to retaliate. He has to. Sebastian wasn’t just disrespectful, his behavior was unacceptable. He knows it, Jim knows it, and Seb’s just waiting for the hammer to fall. The waiting game, this is familiar to him.

But Jim does nothing. Sebastian can’t take it anymore. He steps in front of Jim while he’s sitting on the plush living room couch. A few minutes pass before Jim pulls his attention away from the small screen on his lap, and looks at Sebastian coolly.

“Yes?”

“Jim, I threw a fucking tantrum. I screamed in your face.”

“Yes, you did.”

“So?” Seb spreads his arms wide. “Go on then. I can’t stand waiting any longer. Just do whatever you’re going to do.”

“And what do you think I should do?” Jim closes the laptop with a soft click. Every muscle in Sebastian’s body tenses as Jim stands and stretches. He’s too upset to ogle the small strip of Jim’s skin that becomes exposed.  
“Punish me.”

Jim’s lips do not twist up in a crooked smirk. He doesn't make an inappropriate joke. Instead, Jim drops his head into his hands and stifles a groan.

“Why do you have to make this so much harder than it needs to be?”

“What are you talking about? I’m here! I’m ready! Just fucking get it over with! I don’t know what you want from me!”

“Usually, one would assume that an apology might be made by the offending party.” Jim says dryly. “Are two words so hard to say, or do you really just want to be hurt that badly?”

“I....I am. Sorry.” There’s more he wants to say. More to ask. Why is Jim still here, for one? Why is he putting up with this treatment from Sebastian. Why is he putting his life on hold to take care of one old washed up ex-soldier who’s made his hatred for the man endlessly clear. If the tables were turned, Sebastian would have walked away without a second glance. He did. Sebastian wants to ask, but he doesn’t want the answer. He still, after everything they’ve been through since The Day, isn’t ready to talk. He doesn’t want to forgive Jim.

Jim nods. “Accepted.”

Sebastian waits, but nothing else comes. Jim opens his laptop. Without looking up, he pats the cushion next to him. Sebastian hesitates. Jim’s eyes never leave his work. Slowly, giving Jim a chance to object, he takes the seat next to him, careful to leave a good foot of space between them.

“Also,” Jim comments, after five minutes of awkward silence on Seb’s part, “You’re doing the dishes this week.”

“Aha. So there IS a punishment.”

“No, I’m just fucking tired of doing dishes, Sebastian. Look at my hands. They’re cracking, for God’s sake.”

Sebastian looks at Jim’s hands. Seeing the pale red wounds on his fingers make his heart clench.

“Yeah.” He agrees. “I can do that.”


	9. Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Seb have The Talk

“Okay.” Seb says. He speaks without pain for the first time in two months. He doesn’t have to use his clumsy hands, normally so skilled and dexterous, just to communicate anymore. He’s picked up a lot more signs in the past few weeks, but for this conversation, he’d rather have his voice and his wits about him. “I’m ready to talk.”

“You’d better be.” Jim says, a twitch at the corner of his mouth to show his amusement. “After all, I paid to fix your jaw. You’d better put that mouth to good use, Moran.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. That’s the worst come-on he’s ever heard. 

He thinks that Jim is trying to distract him by flirting. It’s proved effective before. Now, Seb merely rolls his shoulders back. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He wants to stay on task. They need to Talk.

“You keep showing up. You got me free twice. Why bother?” He watches Jim carefully set down the cuppa that Seb had made for him. Black tea, with enough milk and sugar to give an elephant diabetes. 

“I do know what it feels like. To watch...you...die.” Jim looks uncomfortable, and angry about it. His gaze slides off Sebastian’s face, focusing on something non-existent over his left shoulder. His expression is stricken. Sebastian wants to grab Jim’s face and force him to look at him. “I don’t want to see you like that ever again. I won’t allow it.” 

“Really?” That jars Sebastian a little bit. He has a very clear memory of Jim shouting at him, and then something exploding in his ears, leaving nothing behind but an almighty ringing. He remembers feeling cold, like he was slowly turning to ice. “Because I distinctly remember you being the direct cause of at least one of my deaths.”

“Technically..” 

“You fucking shot me.” 

“Yeah, okay, I did.” Jim snaps. He doesn’t like being reminded of it. Hates that he has these visions in his head of Sebastian dying because of him. He’d do anything to take it back. He’s fucking trying, for God’s sake! 

Sebastian’s resistance to anyone and anything that has ever tried to tell him what to do is one of the qualities Jim admires about him, what had first drawn him to this man that didn’t seem to be scared by anything. But right now, the quality is incredibly frustrating, in a way that makes JIm want to roll his eyes. He fully believes that if he does so, Sebastian may actually kill him. 

“Why do you have to snipe back.” Jim pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and resists the orbital movement of his eyeballs. “Would it kill you to just tell me why you insist on acting-”

“Because I’m still fucking angry, Jim!”

“Fine!” Jim nearly shouts. “That’s fine. Be angry. Be whatever you feel like, you don’t need my permission. But can you listen?” 

“I- ugh!” Sebastian pushes his hands into his hair, turning away from Jim, all long lines and aggrieved muscle. Jim definitely does not watch the way his hips twist. Unaware of his close attention, Sebastian grimaces behind eyes that are squeezed tight beneath the red starbursts of his palms. “I don’t know.”

“Please.” At the hesitant word, almost whispered, Sebastian’s hands fall from his head as he looks incredulously at Jim. Did he really just hear that? Is he hallucinating, has Someone slipped Something into his coffee, because he just heard Moriarty beg. Or close enough. 

Jim looks… small. Hunched over, and vulnerable, and it makes Seb’s gut clench with the wrongness. 

He doesn’t want to give Jim a chance to talk. If Jim talks, he’ll want to sit down and listen. And then he’ll get sucked into Jim’s narrative, and before Seb knows it, he’ll be forgiving Jim without hesitation. 

The fire in Seb’s gut is the only thing heating him from the inside these days. The only reason he even bothers to get out of bed in the morning. He thinks that if he lets go of that anger, he’ll lose his momentum. 

Jim hasn’t moved for the last five minutes. Seb can’t believe he’s still here. 

“Fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but go ahead.” He aches for a cigarette. He’s aching for this whole conversation to be over. Jim seems to agree, if him rubbing his knuckles into his eyes and scowling is any indication. His whole face seems to frown with the action. Seb wonders at the fondness he feels at watching the long lines over Jim’s heavy brow appear. 

“I’m.” Jim curses at himself for stumbling. The words gum up in his mouth. He’s never felt so inarticulate. “I’m sorry.”

Sebastian shakes his head, befuddled. “What am I meant to say to that? Honestly, tell me what, because I’ve never known.”

Jim just shakes his head, mute. 

“I’m not going to thank you for it.” Seb continues. “Or just go, oh, yeah it’s okay. I hate when people just say it’s okay. It's never bloody okay. And why aren’t you talking?” He rounds on Jim, whose silence is deafening. 

“I hate making excuses.” Jim says, which Sebastian could and would testify is a lie, but he lets it go. “I see no point in reminding you of every single time I have wronged you. There is nothing more I could say to convince you of my repentance.” 

“What if I want you to remind me? Of every little shitty thing you’ve done to me. Maybe I want you to answer for everything.”

Jim quirks an eyebrow. “Then we’ll be here a very long time, Moran. Are you sure you want to spend that much time in a room with me?” 

“I want to hear you say it. What you know you’ve done wrong to me. You owe me that, at least.” 

“I am a selfish, ignorant bastard.” Jim stops to take a deep breath. 

“Good start. All true.” Sebastian eggs him. Jim ignores the jibe. 

Why was this so hard? To just admit he’d made a mistake? Because he’s Jim Moriarty. He’s always right. His reputation depends on being unquestionable. The man in charge, whom no one dares defy. 

Can he let go of that? For Sebastian, can he let this shield down? He remembers that horrible reset, the one where he’d broken down and admitted defeat. Where he’d seen familiar red splashes and his own blood had run cold because it shouldn’t have come from one of his people. From the only person that had mattered to him, and he didn’t even realise it until Sebastian was too far gone to reach. Until he was dead and Jim was slammed with years of regret packed into one gut-wrenching moment. And he’d realised that all he wanted was Sebastian by his side, as his sniper, his bodyguard, his lover, his everything. 

And he’d had a chance to make it right. So he’d hit reset and eagerly awaited the morning where he’d wake up and look into his lover’s blue eyes and reveal his joyful revelation to him. 

But Sebastian hadn’t been there, and in the tumbling ruins of his elation, Jim could feel his old ways slipping over him like a second skin. He’d been hurt. He’d wanted to tell Sebastian about his new feelings, and Sebastian had run away from him. 

Rightfully so. Jim understands now. He doesn’t automatically deserve Sebastian’s trust. He has to earn it back. And that starts by giving Sebastian his own trust. 

He just didn’t think it would be so difficult. Sebastian’s been watching him for the last several minutes, while he stares off into space. Jim’s mouth opens, works soundlessly, and closes again. He’s trembling. Fuck. Is he...scared? Of talking? 

This is it. Sebastian could listen to what he says, and decide he doesn’t like it. He could leave for the last, and final time. Jim doesn’t think he could take the rejection. 

The soft slide of Sebastian’s hand over his causes him to gasp, and his eyes to fly open. Sebastian isn’t looking at him, but down, and Jim’s own gaze slips down to look at their hands. His own fingers curl around Sebastian’s. Seb squeezes lightly. Go on. 

“I treated you like a thing.” Jim squeezes his eyes shut. “I used you like a tool, because that’s all I saw you as, for the longest time. I was a fool. Sebastian, I was wrong. I focused on the work, on the game, on anything to keep me occupied, and I ignored the one good thing I had right in front of me. I don’t want to die. I want to live, and I don’t want to do it without you. I am so, so sorry. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I...I’m asking for it, because I want…I want you back-”

He takes a deep breath. “I want to try again.” 

“You know that makes this sound like we broke up, right?” 

Jim huffs. “You’re avoiding the subject. Tell me, Sebastian. What do you want?”

What does Sebastian want? He still feels just as angry. For a brief, suspended moment, he’s gotten a single opportunity to yell at Jim Moriarty as much as he wants. It’s a valuable moment.   
He wants this to have never happened. He wants Jim to have stayed alive. He wanted Jim to look at him, just once, fully in the face and see him. He wants, with a great yearning that he doesn’t fully understand. He only knows that it makes his face hot, and his breath stop. He wants so badly. 

Of course Jim can see it on his face, he’s open for all to see like a tiger displayed in a cage, pacing and growling from behind bars. Strip away his skin, and what is he? Take away the anger, and what is left? 

“I want you, Jim. I’ve only ever wanted you.” He couldn’t give a toss about the money, the fancy hotels, the expensive rifles, (though they didn’t hurt). “I gave you everything, and you barely even looked at me.”

His cheeks prickle, scorching hot, beet red. Jim thankfully doesn’t comment, possibly for fear of a fist to the mouth. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut, trapping the thought, and lets out a shaky breath. Breaking Jim’s nose and loosening a few of his teeth would feel good, so damn good. But once the adrenaline wore off, nothing would be changed. He’d still feel wound up and hot and trapped in his own skin. 

Seb keeps his eye closed, because he can’t bear to look at Jim right now. 

“I don’t know how to do this.” A hopeless laugh falls from his lips. In the dark, through his eyelids, he can feel Jim looking at him. He ducks his head, struggling to keep his breathing under control. God damn it, he will NOT do this in front of Jim Moriarty. 

Silky fingertips graze his skin, causing him to gasp. Small, strong fingers tilt his chin up. Sebastian doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he can’t help himself, looking at Jim like a man condemned. He’s on death row, and Jim is his judge, jury, and executioner. Jim is his end. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Jim says. “I don’t either.” 

“Yeah, clearly.” Seb means it as a joke, but he’s hit with another vision of Jim on the rooftop. Blood on cement. Rain soaking through his coat as he collapses on wet tarmac, sobbing helplessly.

“I’m never going to be enough for you, am I?” He whispers. “You’ll get bored again. You’ll leave me again. I’m just a man.”

“Sebastian. You’re not listening to me.” Jim puts his hands on either side of Sebastian’s head, draws him down closer. “I want you. I am choosing you, over everything-”

“And when you don’t want me anymore?” Sebastian’s eyes are dark, and tired. His anger’s gone out like a flame, leaving nothing but drifting smoke. “What happens then, Jim?” 

“Then I’ll stay.” Jim says. “Until I come to my senses, and remember who I have waiting for me when I go wandering. Will you wait for me, Sebastian? When I lose myself?”

Jim’s lips are close enough that Sebastian fancies he can feel the warmth emanating from them. He breaths in as Jim exhales, tastes the sugariness of his breath, the mint from his favorite toothpaste sharp and sweet. 

“I don’t know if I can.” Seb murmurs, gaze fixed on the bow of Jim’s upper lip. But he’s leaning in, wanting to feel those hot and cold lips on his own, his body rushing past forgiving and already moving on to what comes next, the inevitable collision of two bodies, drawn together by gravity. 

“It’s just staying.” Jim helps him along, pulls him in and opens up for Sebastian to press his lips to his own. “Say you will.” 

“Okay.” Sebastian mumbles, muffled by Jim nipping and sucking, and generally making it very hard to speak at all. “I’ll stay. Can we go to bed now?” 

“I’d thought you’d never ask.” 

Sebastian does something he’s always wanted to do, and picks Jim up in his arms. Jim wraps his legs around Sebastian’s waist, and they tumble into Sebastian’s bedroom, still locked together. 

Sebastian lets Jim fall back onto the mattress, climbing on top of him as he opens his mouth to complain. Seb boxes him in, caging him with a hand on either side, and he leans in close. 

“Your mistake, asking me to stay. I’m never going to let you go.” He growls into Jim’s ear. 

“Sebastian.” Jim hooks a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in for another searing kiss. “That’s all I want.” 

^^^  
A kettle shrieks. Grit stings his palms as he sits up. His heart hammers in his chest. What? Where? Calm down. Focus on what you can see. His hands, nails manicured, because Jim had shamed him into what Jim believed was basic hygiene, and had tricked Sebastian into getting his nails done. He would never admit that he enjoyed being pampered, just a little bit. 

But Jim isn’t here. 

Jim’sgoneJim’sgoneJim’sgone

The chant repeats over and over in Seb’s head, like a record scratching bloody grooves into his heart. 

He can’t do this again. Again? 

Not after they’d finally made up, like the small squashed down part of Sebastian always hoped for.

Sebastian wakes up to an empty bed, and he forgets how to breath, hearing a kettle in his ears, like a bomb had gone off right next to him, spraying sand and the grit under his palms and his chest is heaving, but he can’t get any air in his lungs, it's all been knocked out of him by the realization that he’s alone, again. Again? 

God. God fucking dammit how many times is Jim going to tear him apart and put him together again, pathetically hopeful and willing to accept any apology the man will give because his flesh is warm under Sebastian’s touch, because he might be a lying scheming son of a bitch, but at least he isn't a vacant body on a rooftop- 

Seb slams his hands into his heads, trying to knock the memory out. He rubs his knuckles into his eyes, causing stars to dance in the empty space, but he can still smell the thick metallic scent-

He heaves. Nothing comes up, luckily he hasn’t eaten yet, but the sensation is no less horrid. 

No. He’s done this before. Over and over and over again and he just got Jim back.

Jim. Where the hell is Jim?

His heart rate rocketing, Sebastian whips his head around. Is he really alone in the bed, or will he find that familiar silhouette, a shadow sleeping next to him. 

He reaches out a hand, but doesn’t let it touch the blankets that he watches rise and fall. Instead, he reaches upward, and brushes a few stray strands around his consulting criminal’s ear. 

Jim’s right here. Where he should be. 

Sebastian closes his eyes, counting to ten and back. He inhales. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. And exhales shakily. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. He is safe. Jim is safe. They’re in the flat. Everything is okay. 

Aaaand the kettle’s still fucking screaming. Grumbling, but not so loud as to actually wake Jim up, he eases his weight out of the bed with ease. Seb knows how to sneak when he wants to, so he makes his silent way to the kitchen, and throws the fucking annoying thing out the window. Its shriek withers as it disappears into the void, aka their neighbor’s yard. Seb’s sure that Jim’s neighbors are used to seeing random objects fly out of his residence. Finally, some damn quiet. 

Well. Seb looks at the fridge. Might as well, he’s already up. He snags Jim a yogurt Seb is reasonably sure has a flavor he won’t object to. Maybe he’ll get Jim some caffeine too, to appease his sensibilities. Seb can be nice. He pushes past the coffee, cheap because only he drinks it, and he doesn’t care how it tastes as long as there’s lots of it. Snags some black tea he thinks is in date and heats up the water in the microwave like a heathen, belatedly realizing their hot water maker was....broken. 

He thinks Jim should be pleased. When’s the last time he’d actually seen Jim eat, anyway? Jim should be grateful his sniper is making him breakfast in bed. Wasn’t even in the contract or anything. Seb’s too tired to make an actual breakfast, feeling like he’s woken up after twenty years of sleep. He’ll be surprised if his hair doesn’t start coming in grey. 

Careful not to make a sound, Seb teases their bedroom door open with his foot. He looks up, and barely manages to keep the two mugs in hand from spilling because all his limbs are spasming into action because Jim’s eyes are wide and he shouldn’t look like that. He shouldn’t be shivering, clutching the duvet like it’s the only thing protecting him. 

“Jim.” Seb sets down breakfast and wraps his arms around Jim, pulling the smaller man into his chest. “I’m here. I’m not leaving now. Can you hear me?” 

Jim jerks his head in what could be a nod. His entire body is shaking. Sebastian hugs him tighter, hoping to anchor Jim to here and now. Nothing is going to happen this time, whatever that might be. Sebastian will ensure it. 

Jim says something that Seb strains to hear. 

“What?”

“You weren’t here.” Jim says, sounding thin. “I woke up here, again. It’s TODAY. Like it always is.” 

Sebastian keeps quiet, expectant. Waiting for his genius to work it out. He already knows. How, he couldn’t tell you, but Sebastian can feel it. This time, their consequences are going to stay. 

Better make the right choice. Sebastian knows his. 

He’s staying. 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Like, Comment, and Review! Also share with anyone who likes MorMor! 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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